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THE  BUFFOON 


MR.  KNOPF'S  NEW  BOOKS 

GREEN  MANSIONS 

By  W.  H.  Hudson 

Foreivord  by  John   Galsivorthy 
GREAT  RUSSIA 

By  Charles  Sarolea 
BIRDS  AND  MAN 

By  W.  H.  Hudson 
THE  OLD  HOUSE 

By  Feodor  Sologub 
THE  LITTLE  DEMON 

By  Feodor  Sologub 
IN  THE  RUSSIAN  RANKS 

By  John  Morse 
A  HERO  OF  OUR  TIME 

By  M.  Y.  Lermontov 
FOUR-DIMENSIONAL  VISTAS 

By  Claude  Bragdon 
SELF-GOVERNMENT  IN  RUSSIA 

By  Paul  Vinogradoff 
THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  PHYSICIAN 

By  Vikenty   Veressayev 
OTHERS:  An  Anthology  of  the  Neiv  Verse 


THE  BUFFOON 


By 

Louts 
U 

Wilkinson 


NEW  YORK-  ALFRED  A  KNOPF  •  M CM XVI 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF 
Published  April,  1916 


PRINTED  IN  AMERICA 


To 
FRANCES  GREGG 

in  recognition 


513600 

LIBRARY 


THE  BUFFOON 


rHE  BUFFOON 


CHAPTER  I 

IT  seemed  Inevitable  that  all  contacts  with  Ed- 
ward Raynes  should  shake  his  cap  and  bells. 
He  had  in  his  brain  a  teasing  imp  of  farce, 
an  imp  sometimes  vaguely  irritating  to  him.  He 
approached  the  dim  consciousness,  as  he  took  time 
and  grew,  that  this  "  control "  was  something  sepa- 
rate from  himself,  particularly  from  the  self  that 
lay  low  and  sometimes  made  as  though  it  might 
emerge.  His  pantaloon  impulses  and  grotesque 
ribald  stirs  jerked  him  about  on  their  strings,  mak- 
ing him  feel  uncomfortably  a  mannikin  now  and  then. 
The  strings  were  fastened  inside  and  wound  round; 
they  were  ligaments  disconcertingly  animal  and  or- 
ganic. 

But  Edward  did  not  embarrass  himself  by 
dwelling  on  his  really  intimate  concerns;  he  did  not 
enter  upon  painful  self-analysis.  His  existence  was 
agreeable  and  superficial;  he  clipped  and  rolled  the 
smooth  soft  grass  of  his  superficies  with  a  care  that 
grew  yearly  more  exquisite  and  more  absorbing.  He 
had  an  easy  licence  for  such  occupation,  in  the  way  of 
which  stood  no  mocking  hindrance.     His  belittling 

9 


10  The  Buffoon 

farceur  Imp  could  not  belittle  what  was  small  enough 
already,  could  not  comically  depreciate  what  laid  a 
claim  at  once  so  moderate  and  so  beyond  possibility 
of  challenge  for  what  it  was.  Edward  could  com- 
port his  outward  existence  as  sedulously  as  he  chose 
without  any  apprehension  from  that  burlesque  leer. 

He  was,  in  fact,  subject  to  the  mastery  in  chief  of 
certain  eighteenth  century  minds,  that  mastery  of 
fear  of  the  personal  indignities  which  Invade  us  al- 
ways along  with  the  Intense  sensations  that  come  of 
going  far,  whether  in  thought  or  in  emotion.  These 
mastered  ones  cling  to  a  surface  made  as  secure  and 
as  habitable  as  possible,  while  they  make  fools  when 
they  can  of  others  In  order  to  cover  their  own  terror 
of  the  motley.  Again,  they  will  Inoculate  them- 
selves with  a  prophylactic  mild  dilution  of  recognised 
absurdity,  will  cultivate  certain  whims  and  foibles 
to  draw  off  ridicule  that  would  elsewhere  strike  too 
deep.  By  an  irony  almost  tragic  these  men  end  in 
being  the  most  completely  tricked  by  whatever  cosmic 
spirit  there  is;  themselves  the  buffoons  who  have 
lost  most. 

The  smothered  discomforts  of  Edward's  soul 
came  from  the  intermittent  expression  of  Its  desire 
for  salvation.  As  he  grew  older  he  developed  wider 
reaches  and  more  various  appreciations,  but  he  re- 
sisted unpeaceable  readjustments  and  evaded  recon- 
structions. He  came  to  new  experiences  and  took 
them  in,  but  they  had  to  be  on  terms  with  what  was 
there  already;  they  were  not  allowed  to  bring  about 


The  Buffoon  11 

any  searching  or  sifting  change.  The  distant,  oc- 
casional suggestion  that  they  should,  gave  Edward 
what  almost  amounted  to  pain,  what  certainly  dis- 
turbed his  equanimity.  At  such  times  he  would  go 
out  and  buy  a  new  tie,  with  especial  care  and  judg- 
ment. 

He  was  by  nature  active,  both  of  mind  and  body, 
and  he  occupied  himself  thoroughly  enough,  though 
always  within  bounds,  never  rashly  forgetful  of  the 
safe  middle  path.  He  read,  he  travelled,  he  looked 
at  pictures,  he  heard  music,  he  had  to  do  with  girls. 
He  was  often  taken  up  with  arrangements  for  his 
cottage  in  Sussex  and  his  London  rooms.  He  liked 
choosing  wallpaper  and  carpets,  chairs,  sideboards, 
furniture  of  every  kind:  such  exercise  of  taste  ran 
most  smoothly  along  his  lines;  he  picked  up  a  good 
many  "  nice  things  "  in  France,  in  Italy,  in  Belgium, 
and  at  certain  English  shops,  specially  discovered, 
in  London  and  elsewhere.  He  spent,  too,  some 
energy  in  the  cultivation  of  his  palate,  in  the  ac- 
quisition of  a  jiair  for  the  virtues  of  wines  and  chefs. 
Nor  did  he  neglect  his  wardrobe;  he  took  up  time 
with  his  clothes  and  was  successful  with  them. 

Edward's  balanced  variety  of  well-toned  interests 
conspired  to  prevent  him  from  going  intellectually  or 
emotionally  far,  and  so  kept  him  safe.  This  was, 
in  fact,  what  his  interests  were  for,  to  bring  the  bear- 
ing-rein to  play,  to  hold  him  off  from  any  rush  or 
plunge  into  self-committal.  Every  preoccupation, 
with  him,  became  pleasant  and  mild,  was  reduced  to 


12  The  Buffoon 

the  level  of  an  agreeable  joke.  He  was  so  much  in 
bond  to  his  sense  of  humour  that  he  felt  lost  when 
within  reach  of  anything  that  he  could  not  dig  in 
the  ribs.  From  this  angle  or  that,  on  one  excuse  or 
the  other,  he  would  have  his  anticipated  prod. 

It  was  with  this  habitual  air  of  humorous  detach- 
ment that  he  approached  art  and  letters.  He  en- 
joyed occasional  reading  and  occasional  pictures,  but 
his  enjoyment  was  always  well  within  range  of  his 
habitual  self.  So  much  as  he  permitted  to  reach  him 
of  Watteau,  Velasquez,  and  the  very  early  Italian 
painters,  gave  him  pleasure.  Watteau  especially 
he  found  attractive:  the  costumes  of  Watteau's  peo- 
ple delighted  him,  and  their  attitudes.  He  went  to 
Berlin  and  Dresden  solely  on  account  of  Watteau; 
he  cocked  his  eyebrow  at  interv'als  during  the  jour- 
ney, he  tempered  his  enthusiasm  with  railler}''  so  as 
to  be  able  to  support  it  without  wincing.  As  he  re- 
garded the  Fete  Galante  an  unusual  thing  happened. 
A  notion  of  parody  struck  him,  and  he  rebelled 
against  his  appointed  role.  "  Damn  it,"  he  mur- 
mured, "  this  spoils  my  pleasure." 

As  a  rule  he  saw  nothing  the  burlesque  of  which 
he  could  resent:  the  Idea  of  his  burlesque  went  hand 
in  hand  with  what  he  saw  and  was  even  pleasur- 
ably  affiliated  with  it.  He  appreciated  aesthetically, 
within  the  bounds  determined  by  this  "  humour  "  of 
his:  he  was  like  a  man  cherishing  dependently  an 
optical  disease  that  clips  the  range  of  vision,  and 
modifies  so  much  vision  as  remains.     He  had  this 


The  Buffoo/i  13 

same  docked  and  smeared  view  of  \'elasquez  and 
Botticelli,  and  no  less  of  literar}'  artists. 

When  Edward  read  he  stood  more  notably  aloof 
from  any  serious  self-committal  than  ever.  He 
looked  through  a  telescope  at  his  author,  with  the 
other  eye  significantly  closed.  In  his  way,  he  was  a 
shrewd  enough  critic:  he  was  not  easily  imposed  upon 
by  shallow  talent,  and  although  he  kept  genius  at 
a  distance  he  had  a  very  keen  relish  for  so  much 
as  he  could  safely  accept  of  what  genius  gave  him. 
Henr}'  James  suited  him  extremely  well,  especially 
in  style.  He  gave  Edward's  brain  the  kind  of  move- 
ment that  he  found  most  acceptable,  and  indulged  his 
amiable  jocosity  in  exactly  the  right  way.  For  Ed- 
ward could  be  amiable  and  jocose  at  a  little  distance 
from  this  author,  on  very  good  terms  with  him  all 
the  while. 

Edward  amused  himself  more  lazily  with  racy 
novels,  sensation  novels,  and  novels  of  adventure. 
Never  with  any  of  his  authors  did  he  become  per- 
sonally involved,  not  even  with  passionate  poets  like 
Shelley  and  Swinburne;  he  ignored  on  a  bland  in- 
stinct ever}'thing  in  them  that  could  personally  in- 
volve him :  they  inevitably  had  to  let  him  off. 

Modern  propagandist  writing  Edward  soon  came 
to  accept  with  the  utmost  sang-froid.  It  pleased 
him  to  think  of  the  social  system  as  a  laughing-stock, 
he  was  quite  content  that  it  should  be,  but  equally 
content  that  there  seemed  some  prospect  of  these  re- 
formers having  their  fling.     This  gave  him  promise 


14  The  Buffoon 

of  a  new  kind  of  entertainment.  Meanwhile  he 
"  ragged "  his  Club  acquaintances  with  Socialistic 
quips  and  sallies;  but  so  happily  and  sportively  that 
he  kept  his  popularity  along  with  an  extension  of 
his  jester's  licence. 

He  was  interested  in  people.  He  had  no  friends, 
but  he  knew  a  good  many  men,  and  with  all  of  them 
he  played  his  game,  trotting  them  to  and  fro  in  the 
light  of  his  opera-boiiffe  stage,  where  they  suffered 
their  appropriate  conversions  to  his  kind  of  figures 
of  fun.  His  taste  for  more  obvious  clowning  mel- 
lowed after  he  left  Cambridge :  he  was  less  for  ac- 
tion, and  more  for  talk;  but  he  still  especially 
enjoyed  outrageous  shocks,  preposterous  juxtaposi- 
tions, incredible  claps  and  jangles, —  all  possible 
occasions  for  full-blown  unpardonable  laughter. 
Anything  in  the  nature  of  a  shameless  projection, 
towards  whatever  quarter,  made  him  well  con- 
tent. 

Edward  travelled  in  France ;  he  was  often  in  Paris. 
He  went  sometimes  to  Italy  and  to  Spain.  His  im- 
pressions had  to  fall  in  and  keep  their  place:  it  was 
necessary  for  him  to  feel  safe  with  them,  to  make 
them  yield  his  familiar  enjoyment  that  did  not 
go  too  far.  Sometimes  he  travelled  alone,  but  on 
the  whole  he  preferred  a  companion,  even  at  the  cost 
of  a  play  less  free  in  the  neat  disposal  of  his  hours. 
There  were  two  men  of  his  acquaintance,  George 
Forrest  and  Theocrlte  Molesworth,  ("Theocrlte" 
struck  Edward  as  delectable)  whom  he  particularly 


The  Buffoon  15 

sought  for  his  amusement.  With  women  he  was  not 
occupied  except  in  the  way  of  the  more  elementary 
satisfactions  and  entertainments,  of  which  he  now 
and  again  very  freely  partook.  Not  that  his  amours 
were  gross  and  bald;  he  discriminated  and  appre- 
ciated at  leisure,  he  took  in  many  nice  little  points, 
quite  as  usual.  He  held  pretty  balances  between  his 
blood  and  his  perceptions.  He  had  never  been  at 
all  in  love. 

He  always  spent  Christmas  with  his  mother,  a 
clergyman's  widow,  who  lived  at  Westbeach.  Some- 
times he  went  to  see  her  about  Easter  and  Whitsun- 
tide, or  she  to  see  him.  These  festivals  of  the 
Church  seemed  to  be  naturally  reserved  for  exercises 
of  filial  piety.  Westbeach  depressed  Edward,  and 
his  mother  depressed  him  more  than  Westbeach. 
She  was  "  devoted  "  to  him,  her  only  child,  in  the 
conventional  maternal  way:  that  is,  she  was  not 
really  self-sacrificing  at  all;  simply  animal  and  un- 
controlled. In  Edward's  younger  days,  when  there 
had  not  been  much  money,  his  mother  had  lived 
parsimoniously,  with  high  sentimental  satisfaction  in 
doing  so  "  for  Edward's  sake."  Later,  when  Ed- 
ward's godmother  had  left  him  a  large  sum,  and 
family  legacies  came  in,  Mrs.  Raynes  continued  her 
sparing  ways :  parsimony  had  become  a  habit;  it  gave 
her  an  occupation  and  a  vice.  In  the  spirit  of  drug- 
ging or  tippling  she  would  invest  little  sums  at  fre- 
quent intervals  for  her  boy's  advantage.  Edward 
sometimes  resented  her  use  of  him  as  a  vehicle  for 


16  The  Buffoon 

self-indulgence.  He  also  resented  her  parsimony, 
because  he  was,  in  a  different  way,  parsimonious  him- 
self. 

In  spite  of,  indeed  because  of  his  improved  for- 
tunes, Edward  never  threw  money  about.  Like  all 
well-to-do  men  he  soon  came  to  enjoy  little  econo- 
mies. At  Cambridge,  and  just  afterwards,  in  Lon- 
don, when  he  was  reading  for  the  Bar,  he  had  not 
economised  at  all;  he  was  always  in  debt.  He  had 
too  little  money  then  to  make  economy  interesting. 
Now  that  he  was  by  comparison  rich  he  prided  him- 
self on  never  spending  without  adequate  return. 
Here  was  one  of  his  permitted  foibles.  He  suffered 
real  chagrin  when  he  thought  he  had  been  over- 
charged, in  however  trifling  a  degree.  He  gave 
reverent  attention  to  unnecessary  expenditures:  he 
exercised  scrupulosities  about  them.  He  liked  ex- 
actness, and  roundings-off.  When  he  wanted  to  post 
a  letter  abroad  and  happened  by  some  unusual  over- 
sight to  have  only  penny  stamps,  he  would  go  out 
of  his  way  to  a  Post  Office  for  a  half-penny  stamp, 
sooner  than  use  three  penny  ones,  or  he  would  post 
the  next  day.  In  the  same  spirit  he  finished  off  the 
remains  of  his  pieces  of  soap  and  kept  watch  over 
unused  half  sheets  of  notepaper.  He  never  wrote 
letters  when  postcards  would  do.  But  none  of  his 
expensive  pursuits  gave  him  a  pang;  he  never  thought 
of  money  when  he  was  about  his  pleasures.  As  he 
put  it  himself,  he  had  no  taste  for  petty  extrava- 
gances. 


CHAPTER  II 

EDWARD  was  standing,  one  bright  July 
morning  of  his  thirty-sixth  year,  before  the 
looking-glass  of  his  bedroom  in  Sussex,  com- 
pleting his  toilet.     It  was  about  half-past  nine. 

Getting  up  in  the  morning  was  delightful  to  Ed- 
ward. He  took  a  cold  bath,  a  luxury  particularly 
well-suited  to  people  who  are  both  sanguine  and 
sensuous.  After  his  bath  he  dressed  rapidly  till  his 
trousers  were  on,  and  then  very  slowly.  In  his  shirt- 
sleeves he  looked  his  best,  and  he  enjoyed  his  looks. 
At  this  point  he  rolled  his  first  cigarette  of  the  day, 
from  pure  mild  Virginian  tobacco.  No  prepared 
Virginian  cigarettes  of  the  same  freshness  and  fla- 
vour can  be  bought,  as  Edward  had  found  out  long 
ago.  This  maiden  cigarette  he  rolled  with  exquisite 
nicety,  and  was  pleased  by  every  whiff  of  it.  It  oc- 
cupied him  almost  exclusively.  When  it  was  lit  he 
sat  down  opposite  his  looking-glass,  to  smoke  and  to 
survey  himself. 

He  was  still  quite  a  young  man  in  appearance. 
There  is  nothing  like  a  regard  for  pleasure  and  a 
strictly  humorous  view  of  life,  well  supported  by  in- 
come, for  keeping  a  man  young.  Edward  had 
avoided  all  possible  ageing  complications  of  exist- 
ence: far-reaching  emotions,  probing  thought,  mar- 


18  The  Buffoon 

riage,  any  experiences  that  might  stir,  he  had 
avoided  them  all.  He  had  taken  resolute  care 
of  himself.  His  complexion  was  as  fresh  as  ever 
—  ruddy  but  not  coarsened  in  the  least.  He  had 
a  rather  small,  neatly  turned  head,  soft  straight 
hair  between  brown  and  auburn,  and  a  care- 
fully kept  moustache  of  a  lighter  tint.  His  lips  were 
too  thick  and  not  firmly  closed,  so  he  was  wise  in 
wearing  a  moustache.  His  gay  clear  blue  eyes  were 
a  distinct  asset,  especially  in  gallantries.  His  ears 
were  small  and  nicely  made;  his  chin,  though  not 
quite  square,  showed  decision  and  had  a  masculine 
tone.  He  was  a  little  over  middle  height,  trim  and 
well  built.  Taken  altogether,  he  pleasantly  caught 
the  eye. 

After  smoking,  Edward  shaved,  and  when  he  had 
shaved  he  tended  his  moustache.  On  this  particular 
morning  he  was  blandly  regarding  the  proximity  of 
these  operations.  He  had  just  thrown  away  the 
end  of  his  cigarette  and  got  up  from  his  chair,  when 
a  knock  sounded  on  his  bedroom  door.  Edward's 
complacency  was  a  shade  ruffled.  He  moved  to  the 
door  and  gently  turned  the  key.  "  Well?  "  he  said 
suavely. 

"Confound  you!"  exclaimed  a  voice  outside. 
*'  Don't  lock  me  out." 

"  What  do  you  want,  George?  " 

"  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"  Can't  be  done  just  now,  dear  boy." 

"  But  hang  it  all,"  George  Forrest's  voice  showed 


riie  Buffoon  19 

irritation,  "  I've  something  particularly  important 
to  say." 

"  Yes,  but  I  can't  dress  comfortably  with  any- 
body looking  on." 

"  Rot." 

There  was  a  pause,  then  George  observed  rather 
plaintively:     "  You  might  as  well  let  me  in." 

Edward  was  silent.  George  went  away  for  a 
moment :  coming  back  with  a  chair,  he  sat  down  out- 
side the  door. 

"  Why  do  you  get  up  so  beastly  late?  "  he  began. 
"  You're  wasting  your  life,  that's  what  you're  doing. 
Every  man  ought  to  be  of  some  use  in  the  world. 
You'd  be  far  happier  if  you  had  an  aim  in  life. 
Why  don't  you  take  up  politics  or  municipal  affairs 
or  healthy  sport?  Think  of  the  time  you  waste. 
It's  perfectly  awful.  Think  of  the  opportunities  you 
have.  Many  men  would  give  their  eyes  to  have 
your  opportunities.  Think  of  the  good  you  might 
do.  And  everything  going  to  waste.  It's  criminal. 
While  you're  still  a  young  man.  It's  really  ex- 
asperating. Have  you  no  ambitions?  Are  you 
always  going  to  fool  away  your  existence?  Where 
is  your  conscience?  'Life  is  real,  life  is  earnest.' 
Is  any  human  being  the  better  for  your  existence? 
Tell  me  that.  Edward  Raynes,  I  must  rouse  you  if 
I  can.  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  do  so.  I  must  make 
the  attempt.  You  have  intelligence.  Surely  your 
intelligence  wasn't  given  you  to  waste?  You  must 
see  that.     Think  what  a  chance  you  had  at  the  Bar. 


20  The  Buffoon 

You  might  have  been  a  K.C.  by  now.  Many  a  less 
able  man  has  been  a  K.C.  at  your  age.  At  this  mo- 
ment you  might  have  been  speaking  in  the  Courts  — 
making  a  forensic  triumph.  Your  name  in  all  the 
newspapers!  Think  of  that.  And  what  are  you 
doing?"  (He  could  hear  Edward  stropping  his 
razor.)  "Shaving.  Shaving!"  (His  tone  con- 
veyed infinite  disgust.)  "  Shaving  at  ten  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  and  not  yet  had  breakfast.  You  take 
half  an  hour  or  more  to  shave.  /  shave  in  five  min- 
utes. No  man  worth  his  salt  should  take  longer 
than  ten  minutes  to  shave,  especially  when  he  has  a 
moustache.  I  shave  at  seven  thirty,  sharp,  every 
morning.  That's  the  way  to  begin  the  day's  work. 
Read  Rudyard  Kipling.  Read  Colonel  Roosevelt's 
speeches.  '  The  strenuous  life.'  Splendid  man, 
the  Bishop  of  London.  Prove  your  manhood. 
That's  what  we  all  have  to  do." 

Edward,  within,  continued  to  shave.  George 
left  his  chair,  and  walked  the  passage  for  awhile  to 
cool  his  indignation.  He  was  a  lean  dark  wiry  man, 
nearly  ten  years  younger  than  Edward.  He  had 
approached  as  a  neighbour  soon  after  Edward  had 
taken  this  Sussex  cottage.  George  had  never  been 
happy  about  his  friend,  and  recently  had  become  con- 
vinced that  it  was  his  mission  to  wean  him  from  a  life 
of  shameful  case;  but  it  was  the  first  time  that  he 
had  made  so  direct  an  appeal.  At  last,  he  thought, 
the  hour  had  come  for  a  plain  frank  talk. 

George  was  one  of  those  people  who,  with  limited 


The  Buffoon  21 

intellectual  and  aesthetic  resources,  have  a  mania  for 
activity.  It  was  the  object  of  his  life  to  satisfy  this 
mania,  and  to  infect  other  people  with  it.  He  ran 
any  number  of  organizations  in  his  neighbour- 
hood,—  the  Boy  Scouts,  the  Church  Lads'  Brigade, 
the  Debating  Society,  the  Society  for  Discoun- 
tenancing Drinking  except  at  Mealtimes,  two  politi- 
cal Associations,  and  a  Chess  Club.  He  was  always 
speaking  at  meetings.  He  prided  himself  above 
everything  else  on  being  an  organiser,  and  secondly 
on  being  a  good  all-round  useful  man.  Marriage 
would  have  taken  the  wind  out  of  his  numerous  sails, 
and  that  was  largely  why  he  showed  no  disposition 
to  marry. 

Edward  foresaw  diverting  vistas  from  the  mo- 
ment George  fastened  upon  him.  From  the  first  he 
treated  him  scandalously,  pushing  him  beyond  every 
limit  of  usual  endurance,  teasing  him  shamelessly 
about  his  "  good  works,"  pelting  his  upright  simple 
schoolboy  soul  with  little  pellets  aimed  just  where 
they  might  most  intimately  smart  and  sting;  provok- 
ing thus  the  absurdest  starts,  the  jumps  and  jerks 
most  worth  a  smile.  He  used  George  in  this  way 
for  his  entertainment,  and  refused  to  pay  any  fee 
for  the  show.  When  George  began  to  be  tedious 
or  to  get  on  his  nerves,  he  got  rid  of  him  at  once. 
Sometimes  he  slipped  into  the  nearest  Bar,  calling 
out  to  the  Secretary  of  the  Society  for  Discoun- 
tenancing Drinking  except  at  Mealtimes :  "  Come 
along!     My  turn  to  treat" — or  he  would  pick  up 


22  The  Buffoon 

some  gay  girl,  with :  "  Ah,  George,  you  introduced 
us,  didn't  you?" — of  drive  him  away  by  a  lewd 
gibe. 

He  had  listened  to  the  remarks  made  by  George 
outside  his  bedroom  door  without  allowing  the 
rounded  harmony  of  his  existence  to  be  in  any  way 
disturbed.  George  renewed  the  attack,  he  renewed 
it  several  times,  taking  intervals  to  think  of  fresh 
things  to  say,  and  of  how  to  say  them  most  effec- 
tively. 

Edward  proceeded  with  the  completion  of  his  toi- 
let: he  waxed  his  moustache,  he  washed  his  hands 
with  the  hot  water  left  over  from  shaving,  moder- 
ated by  the  tepid  water  from  his  hot  bottle.  It 
pleased  Edward  to  put  things  to  two  purposes;  it 
seemed  to  add  a  spice  to  life  when  he  poured  the 
water  out  of  his  bottle  into  his  basin.  He  always 
used  a  hot  bottle  however  warm  the  weather  might 
be,  and  he  never  washed  his  hands  when  he  took 
his  cold  bath:  that  would  have  distracted  him. 
Finally  everything  was  done  and  had  fitted  in  de- 
lightfully. Edward  loved  things  to  fit  in.  When 
he  could  look  back  on  his  toilet  as  on  a  perfected  and 
highly  developed  organism,  planned  and  realised  to 
admiration,  then  he  opened  the  door.  George  was 
in  the  midst  of  a  peroration. 

".  .  .  that  indolence  which  is  the  deadliest  of 
all  corrosives,  saps  all  that  is  worth  calling  manhood, 
and  in  the  end  destroys  one,  physically,  mentally  and 
morally." 


The  Buffoon  23 

"  Good  morning,"  said  Edward,  affably  patting 
him  as  he  rose  hurriedly  from  the  chair.  George 
scowled.  "  Come  along,  dear  one,"  Edward  con- 
tinued, "  I  want  breakfast." 

"  Tell  me," —  George  spoke  slowly  and  solemnly 
as  they  walked  downstairs, — "  you  will  at  least  think 
over  what  I  have  said,  will  you  not?  " 

"  I  tell  you  what,  George,  if  you  go  looking  at  lit- 
tle Norah  in  that  wicked  way  as  you  pass  my  garden 
gate,  they'll  clap  you  into  prison,  that's  what  they'll 
do  to  you." 

"  Little  Norah "  was  a  girl  of  the  village,  a 
farmer's  daughter.  On  Edward's  mention  of  her 
she  was  at  once  embarrassingly  present  to  George's 
mind.  Her  prettiness  was  of  the  rich  Italian  type : 
when  she  had  just  washed  her  dark  hair, —  she  man- 
aged to  wash  it  very  often  —  it  was  really  lustrous. 
She  was  a  vivid  sun-steeped  thing,  and  promised  a 
full  bloom  more  vivid  still.  A  Frenchman  would 
have  described  her  with  his  graphic  "  fausse-maigre." 
For  she  was  slender  and  plump  at  the  same  time :  her 
slimness  was  feminine,  not  boyish.  She  was  not 
*'  fruit  vert,"  yet  she  could  give  a  tempting  sugges- 
tion of  immaturity  while  still  more  temptingly  be- 
lying it  a  moment  later.  She  had  a  provocative 
way  of  being  both  this  and  that  in  contrast:  generous 
and  lithe,  developed  and  undeveloped,  innocent  and 
equivocal,  dangerous  and  harmless,  she  piqued  men, 
she  made  them  uneasy  and  unsure  of  themselves. 
Most  of  the  village  boys  fought  shy  of  her:  those 


24  The  Buffoon 

that  did  not  she,  with  a  light  touch  here  and  there, 
made  unhappy.  Edward  had  observed  her  in  a  de- 
tached way :  she  was  disturbing  to  George,  though  he 
firmly  believed  she  was  nothing  of  the  sort. 

George  had  been  staring  at  Edward  in  amazed 
horror.  "How  dare  you,  Raynes?  This  is  a  — 
a  most  scandalous  and  unwarrantable  imputation.  I 
never  even  saw  Norah  Weekes." 

"Weekes?  —  Weekes?  Is  her  name  Weekes? 
But  of  course  you  must  be  right.  Sportive  little 
filly,  George,  what?"  Edward  walked  into  his  din- 
ing-room. 

"  This  is  outrageous  of  you,  Raynes.  The  girl  is 
a  mere  child." 

"  Coming  on  sixteen,  I  believe.  But  gay  and 
sprightly.     Very  apt,  George,  very  apt." 

"  I  am  going.  I  refuse  to  be  a  party  to  such  con- 
versation. And  the  girl  is  eighteen  —  just  eight- 
een." 

"  Ah,  you  know,  George,  you  know.  You  notice 
these  things.  But  why  call  her  a  mere  child,  then? 
Disingenuous,  most  disingenuous.  Ah  me,  how  time 
goes !  " 

Edward's  servant  Merrion  came  in  with  kidneys 
and  bacon,  and  Edward  seated  himself  at  the  table. 

"Fruit,  George?"  Edward  hospitably  invited. 
"  I  sometimes  begin  breakfast  with  fruit.  Have  a 
banana?  " 

"  I  do  not  eat  bananas  at  half  past  ten  in  the  morn- 
ing." 


The  Buffoon  25 

"  Why  not?  And  it's  only  a  quarter  past."  Ed- 
ward peeled  his  banana  thoughtfully,  with  the  same 
careful  precision  that  he  gave  to  the  rolling  of  his 
cigarettes. 

"  It's  men  like  you,"  George  jerked  the  words  at 
him,  "  who  keep  the  world  back.  If  all  people  of 
independent  means  led  your  kind  of  life,  we  should 
never  get  anywhere." 

"  You  are  interesting  this  morning  " —  Edward 
surveyed  his  peeled  banana, — "  but  I  never  join  in 
intelligent  conversation  till  I've  quite  finished  break- 
fast.    Will  you  please  ring  the  bell?  " 

George  rang  it  under  protest,  and  the  man  came 
back.  Edward  told  him  to  take  the  kidneys  out  and 
keep  them  hot  till  he  had  finished  his  banana. 
"  Canary  bananas,"  he  added,  speaking  to  George. 
"  All  the  other  kinds  are,  oh  such  a  mistake." 

"  Now  if  I  were  you,"  he  went  on,  after  Merrion 
had  gone,  "  I'd  try  one  of  those  kidneys  when  they 
come  back.  With  a  glass  of  ale.  Delicious.  Just 
the  thing  for  the  middle  of  your  morning." 

"  You  know  I  never  drink  between  meals." 

*'  But  I'm  offering  you  a  meal,  George.  A  beauti- 
ful meal." 

"  It's  not  a  regular  meal." 

Edward  went  on  with  his  banana,  and  as  he  was 
consuming  the  last  mouthful  the  servant  reappeared 
with  the  kidneys.  He  had  learnt  to  time  all  his  mas- 
ter's movements  with  a  lovely  exactness.  The  silver 
cover  slid  over  from  the  dish,  and  Edward  helped 


26  The  Buffoon 

himself  with  all  the  concentration*  of  the  artist. 
George  watched  him  with  pained  attention.  When 
Edward  began  to  eat,  the  other  shuffled  his  feet  un- 
easily, took  a  deep  breath,  and  sat  down,  withdraw- 
ing his  chair  from  the  table  in  a  marked  and 
conscientious  way.  Edward  looked  up  at  him 
quizzically.  He  was  happy.  The  kidneys  were 
perfect. 

George  was  not  happy.  He  was  the  subject  of 
what  Gibbon  refers  to  as  an  "  intestine  dissension." 
"  His  state  of  man,  like  to  a  little  kingdom,  suffered 
then  the  nature  of  an  insurrection."  He  wanted  a 
kidney.  The  cover  of  the  dish  had  been  rolled  back 
again,  so  that  the  remaining  kidneys  might  not  cool 
too  much  in  case  Edward  decided  upon  a  second 
helping,  but  the  fragrance  from  Edward's  plate  was 
alluring,  provocative  almost  beyond  bounds.  Ed- 
ward held  up  his  laden  fork,  and  the  little  cloud  of 
steam  that  puffed  away  from  it  seemed  to  be  im- 
mediately caught  and  wafted  towards  George  by 
some  mocking  sprite,  set  upon  maddening  his  tor- 
tured nostrils.  And  all  the  while  Edward  was  en- 
joying those  kidneys,  —  appreciating  every  subtlety 
of  them  in  silence,  with  the  studied  jlair  of  the  gour- 
met who  understands  the  restraint  and  eclecticism 
proper  to  his  profession.  George  had  breakfasted 
early  and  had  walked  some  miles.  This  was  too 
much.     He  capitulated  suddenly. 

"  After  all,"  he  said;  then  he  paused.  He  cleared 
his  throat  so  as  to  arrest  the  flow  of  his  shame. 


The  Buffoon  27 

"After  all  —  er — I  think  I  will  perhaps  take  a 
little  kidney." 

"  Capital.     Would  you  ring  the  bell  again?  " 

George,  after  ringing,  sat  down  and  stared  at  the 
tablecloth.  Humiliation  was  upon  him.  He  was 
finding  it  impossible  to  keep  up  his  righteous  indig- 
nation against  Edward.  This  gave  him  a  sense  of 
moral  collapse.  He  was  uncomfortable.  And,  to 
make  it  worse,  Edward  had  not  argued  with  him. 
What  George  had  looked  for  was  a  defence  from  Ed- 
ward; a  defence  that  he  would  with  some  labour,  but 
in  the  end  triumphantly,  break  down.  He  had  imag- 
ined that  towards  the  end  of  the  morning  he  would 
return  as  a  runner  from  his  course,  his  spiritual 
muscles  strained,  but  strained  to  some  purpose.  As 
it  was,  he  had  never  felt  less  like  a  moral  athlete  in 
his  life.     It  was  distressing. 

"  A  hot  plate  and  ale  in  a  jug."  Edward  gave  the 
order. 

The  words  seemed  to  George  a  symbol  of  his  fall. 
"  A  hot  plate  and  ale  in  a  jug."  He  saw  the  shame- 
ful climax  of  his  visit.  "  No,  no,  not  ale,"  he  stam- 
mered feebly,  but  he  knew  that  it  was  all  inevitable 
now.  "  A  hot  plate  and  ale  in  a  jug."  The  words 
beat  gently,  insistently,  against  the  half-opened  doors 
of  his  will,  and  had  their  way.  Every  fibre  in  him 
grew  lax  and  more  lax.  He  realised  obscurely,  as 
he  looked  furtively  up  now  and  again  to  Edward, 
that  Edward  might,  in  his  way,  be  called  a  success. 

George  was  baffled.     He  could  not  consent  to  what 


28  The  Buffoon 

he  felt.  His  code  protested,  his  moral  formulae 
bridled,  those  formulae  that  jerked  his  world  on  the 
stilts  of  "  ought "  and  "  must."  None  the  less  a 
moment's  unphrased  suspicion  came  that  life  might  be 
less  simple  than  he  thought:  his  vague  impression  of 
a  certain  completeness  and  distinction  in  Edward 
made  his  enjoyment  of  the  kidneys  and  ale  a  less 
immoral  thing. 

"  Eat  first,  George.  Postpone  the  ale.  You  will 
find  that  better  in  the  end.     Yes." 

The  last  word,  sibilant,  gentle,  decisive,  gave  a 
cachet  to  Edward's  exhortation.  When  he  said 
"  Yes  "  in  that  way  at  the  end,  after  a  slight  pause, 
it  was  like  the  placing  of  a  soft  velvet  paw  on  the 
wrist. 

Edward  lingered,  buttering  bits  of  dry  toast  till 
George's  ale  was  finished.  He  did  not  like  to  eat 
honey  when  some  one  else  was  drinking  ale.  That 
would  have  jarred.  When  George  had  done,  Ed- 
ward had  the  glass  and  jug  removed.  Then  he  took 
honey,  with  brown  bread.  George  felt  embarrassed, 
but  defiant.  He  fumbled  at  his  cigarette  case,  but 
Edward  would  not  let  him  smoke. 

"  Wait  a  few  minutes,  George,"  he  said.  "  I  must 
eat  honey  first.  You  will  enjoy  your  cigarette  all 
the  more  later  on.  Sit  in  an  armchair  and  read 
something." 

George  obeyed.  Edward  left  the  room  as  soon 
as  his  breakfast  was  over;  he  left  so  quietly  and 


The  Buffoon  29 

rapidly  that  the  other  was  hardly  aware  of  his  de- 
parture. 

"Well,  I'm  hanged!"  George  ejaculated,  as  the 
door  shut.  This  was  so  entirely  unlike  anything 
that  he  himself  would  have  done. 


CHAPTER  III 

THAT  afternoon  Edward  drove  to  the  station 
in  his  little  pony-cart  to  meet  a  man  who  was 
coming  down  from  London  to  pay  him  a 
visit.  This  Reggie  Tryers  was  a  young  architect, 
whom  Edward  had  met  through  Molesworth.  He 
was  a  restless  person,  and,  like  George,  a  talker. 
Such  men  seemed  naturally  drawn  to  Edward;  they 
circled  about  him  like  flies.  Tryers  was,  however, 
only  superficially  like  George  Forrest.  George 
buzzed  a  great  deal,  but  never  stung:  Tryers  was 
an  insect  with  a  poisonous  tail.  George  spun  busily 
round  and  round  without  real  intent:  Tryers  made 
swift  direct  flights  from  point  to  point,  his  little  brain 
urgently  motive  all  the  whole.  Tryers'  intensity 
was  narrow,  morbid,  dangerous;  he  had  a  hectic 
spirit.  George's  energy  was  expansive  and  physical 
and  harmless;  his  spiritual  temperature  was  inevi- 
tably normal.  With  George  you  knew  exactly 
where  you'  were ;  he  was  always  simply  George : 
"  dear  George,"  as  Edward  liked  to  call  him. 
Tryers  was  never  "  dear  Reggie." 

Edward  found  Tryers  the  more  interesting  of  the 
two.  He  had  asked  him  down  now  for  a  few  days 
because  the  architect  had  written  that  he  was  in  *'  a 
state  of  great  mental  turmoil,"   and  required  Ed- 

30 


The  Buffoon  31 

ward's  advice.  Edward  was  not  sure  if  it  was  his 
advice  or  a  little  holiday  that  Tryers  wanted,  but  he 
reflected  that  if  the  mental  turmoil  existed  it  might 
be  amusing,  and  that  if  It  didn't  there  would  be  no 
harm  in  giving  Tryers  a  week-end  in  the  country.  So 
Tryers  arrived  that  afternoon,  very  spotless,  very 
neat,  very  agile,  preternaturally  alert.  He  advanced 
at  a  brisk  pace  along  the  platform,  carrying  a  small 
shiny  brown  bag  as  though  it  were  a  weapon  of  at- 
tack. 

"Well,  Raynes?  Got  the  pony-cart?  Or  shall 
I  have  this  bag  sent  up?  Lovely  day  for  a  walk. 
By  Jove,  I  envy  you  here.  If  you  knew  how  I've 
been  dying  to  get  out  of  London.  Simply  dying." 
(There  was  something  barbed  about  Tryers'  '  i ' 
sounds.)  "  Oh,  you  have  the  cart.  All  right. 
This  is  my  brother-in-law,  Jack  Welsh.  He  lectures, 
you  know.     You've  met  him,  haven't  you?  " 

Tryers  indicated  in  his  rear  a  turgid-faced  man  of 
about  thirty.  Welsh  gave  a  sprawled  effect.  He 
was  dressed  in  what  looked  like  cast-off  clothing. 
His  coat  and  waistcoat,  dark  blue,  were  stained  and 
spotted;  some  buttons  were  undone,  others  were 
missing.  His  trousers,  equally  negligent,  were  of  a 
light  grey,  and  quite  filthy.  He  carried  a  bag  in 
one  hand,  and  a  suitcase  in  the  other. 

*'  My  friend !  "  cried  Jack  Welsh,  as  Tryers  was 
introducing  him,  "  my  friend,  I've  left  my  coat  in  the 
train!  " 

He  dropped  his  luggage,  and  dashed  for  the  com- 


32  The  Buffoon 

partment,  reappearing  with  a  heavy  overcoat  which 
he  at  once  put  on,  buttoning  It  tightly.  The  sun  was 
hot,  but  Edward  approved.  That  enveloping  gar- 
ment would  save  trouble  with  the  police.  Welsh 
ejaculated  "  Ah  —  ah  — "  as  he  shook  hands. 

"  I  thought  you  and  Welsh  ought  to  meet,"  ex- 
plained Tryers.  "  He  Is  quite  one  of  our  circle. 
You  can  put  him  up,  can't  you  ?  He  eats  nothing  but 
eggs  and  bread-and-mllk.  We  can  sleep  together," 
he  added  nonchalantly. 

Edward  turned  to  Welsh. 

"  I'm  delighted,"  he  said  gravely.  "  I  think  our 
friend  here" — he  indicated  Tryers — "will  be 
fairly  well  looked  after  at  the  Inn." 

Welsh  was  enchanted.  *'  Master  of  the  situa- 
tion!" he  shouted.  "Master  of  the  situation! 
Reggie,  you're  foiled  for  once."  He  rubbed  his 
hands  violently.  A  girl  broke  Into  hysterical  laugh- 
ter. She  was  a  particularly  ugly  girl,  and  she  brayed 
like  a  donkey. 

The  three  men  left  the  platform,  Welsh  raising 
his  hat  with  grave  courtesy  to  the  girl  who  had 
brayed  at  him.  He  accepted  her  demonstration  as 
a  tribute.  His  salute  convulsed  her.  The  hat  was 
by  force  of  contrast  the  most  striking  point  in  Welsh's 
attire.  It  was  a  quite  new  straw  hat,  some  sizes 
too  small  for  him. 

Tryers  was  seriously  put  out.  Edward  guessed 
that  he  had  planned  this  encounter  for  the  discom- 
fiture of  Welsh,  that  he  had  meant  Welsh  to  be  a 


The  Buffoon  33 

laughingstock.  Tryers'  antagonism  to  his  brother- 
in-law  was  easily  detected.  It  was  an  antagonism 
to  which  Welsh's  complete  indifference  and  self- 
absorption  gave  a  special  venom.  "  Venomous  " 
really  was  the  word  for  certain  rapid  glances  that 
Edward  intercepted.  He  decided  that  he  would  be 
further  entertained. 

"  I  say,  Tryers,"  he  remarked,  as  he  paid  the  boy 
who  was  looking  after  his  pony,  "  you  might  go  over 
to  the  bookstall  and  get  me  the  '  Pink  'Un,'  will 
you?" 

As  Tryers  went,  Edward  got  into  the  driver's  seat. 
"  Mount,  Mr.  Welsh,"  he  said.     "  Mount  at  once." 

Unfortunately  it  was  impossible  for  Welsh  to 
mount,  or  indeed  to  do  anything  demanding  com- 
mon skill,  at  once.  He  regarded  the  pony-cart  with 
a  timidity  approaching  terror. 

"  Quick,  quick,"  urged  Edward,  with  a  touch  of 
impatience. 

Welsh  grimaced,  shooting  out  his  lips  and  contort- 
ing his  features.  He  waved  his  arms  and  spread 
his  hands,  holding  them  with  a  peculiar  stiffness,  as 
though  they  were  made  without  joints.  With  mani- 
fest effort  he  placed  one  foot  on  the  step,  tried  to 
balance  himself,  and  then  with  a  wilder  wave  of  his 
arms  collapsed  on  the  road.  He  rose  with  difficulty, 
not  attempting  to  brush  the  dust,  and  again  ap- 
proached the  step.  This  time  he  entangled  his  over- 
coat in  the  wheel;  he  was  seized  by  panic,  and  broke 
away  with  violent  jerks. 


34  The  Buffoon 

"  No !  "  he  gasped.  "  No.  It  is  too  much  for 
me.     I  can't." 

Edward  was  fully  occupied  with  keeping  the  pony 
in  hand.  "  You  really  must  get  in,"  he  gently  com- 
manded. 

Welsh,  with  the  expression  of  one  conveyed  to 
torture,  put  his  foot  on  a  spoke  of  the  wheel,  jerked 
his  body  towards  Edward,  and  fell  on  him  with  feet 
in  air.  As  Edward  grasped  him  round  the  waist  he 
wriggled  distractedly  into  his  seat.  Tryers  ap- 
peared with  the  pink  paper,  and  Edward  let  the  pony 

go. 

"You'll  follow  after,  Tryers,  won't  you?"  he 
called. 

Tryers  dropped  the  paper  and  ran,  but  he  could 
not  overtake  them.  Neither  Edward  nor  Welsh 
looked  back.  Edward  knew  that  his  companion's 
heaving  hunched  shoulders  would  be  visible  to  Try- 
ers till  the  turn  of  the  road.  He  could  imagine  Try- 
ers' abounding  hatred  of  that  derisive  back. 

"  Capital!  "  Welsh  hugged  himself.  "  Nothing 
could  please  me  better.  What  a  situation !  A  mas- 
ter! You  are  indeed!  You  are  a  master!  You 
understood  me  at  once.  I  have  an  inordinate  ap- 
petite for  situations  of  any  kind,  humorous  or  melo- 
dramatic or  sentimental.  Oh,  did  Reggie  tell  you? 
We  have  just  come  from  an  elopement  —  an  elope- 
ment !  "  Welsh  gave  the  word  a  peculiarly  succulent 
flavour;  Edward  was  queerly  reminded  of  '  cante- 
loupe,'  so  sweet  and  fruity  was  the  intonation.     "  My 


The  Buffoon  35 

brother  Bertie.  The  bride's  parents  —  dead  against 
it.  What  could  be  more  exciting?  He  and  the 
girl  —  a  frail  exquisite  creature,  slender  as  a  peeled 
willow  wand,  —  they  were  married  in  Kensington, 
and  then  wher'e  do  you  think  we  all  went?  Where? 
Where?  To  a  tavern  by  the  river  —  at  Wapping 
Old  Stairs!  Wapping  Old  Stairs!  Think  of  it! 
Wapping  Old  Stairs !  " 

"  Please  be  careful  to  keep  your  seat,"  Edward 
interposed.     "  My  pony  is  a  bit  restive." 

He  had  to  repeat  the  injunction.  Welsh  swayed 
and  rocked  from  side  to  side,  backwards  and  for- 
wards, rubbing  his  hands  and  beating  with  his  feet, 
completely  disregarding  the  objective  facts  of  his 
position. 

Edward  decided  that  it  was  not  a  question  of  af- 
fectation. Welsh  was  not  one  of  those  people  who 
pose  as  naifs:  they  never  went  so  far  as  to  risk  physi- 
cal danger.  No,  Welsh  was  an  egoist  who  acted  as 
was  natural  to  him,  and  had  a  curious  obliquity  pre- 
venting him  from  noticing  the  effect  he  produced  on 
others,  or  from  copying  usual  conduct.  There  was 
evidently  little  co-ordination  between  his  body  and 
his  mind.  He  could  not  manage  his  body;  probably 
it  had  never  occurred  to  him  to  manage  it.  Edward 
tabulated  these  speculations  against  further  observa- 
tion. He  was  rapidly  getting  reconciled  to  the  idea 
of  Welsh,  he  felt  even  attracted  to  him. 

"  What  a  party  we  had  !  "  Edward  caught  up  with 
the  train  of  Welsh's  narrative.     "What  a  party! 


36  The  Buffoon 

Willie  O'Flaherty  —  the  rarest  spirit  of  the  age  — 
an  amazing  blend  of  Panurge  and  Charles  Lamb  — 
oh,  you  must  meet  Willie  O'Flaherty,  really  you  must 

—  Tom  Fielding,  the  most  irreconcilable,  the  most 
imperturbable,  of  all  individualists  —  my  friend  the 
Catholic,  the  subtlest  and  corruptest  of  theologians 

—  my  cousin  Theodore  who  is  a  hermit  and  wise 
with  the  wisdom  of  all  the  mystics  of  all  the  ages  — 
my  little  brother  Lulu  —  a  darling  boy  with  bright 
curly  hair  and  amorous  lips  —  the  Catholic  liked 
him  —  his  friend  the  Archangel,  a  wicked  youth  who 
was  expelled  from  Oxford  for  celebrating  the  Black 
Mass  —  a  beautiful  youth  and  utterly  unscrupulous 

—  an  old  Polish  poet,  a  Jew,  in  filthy  rags  —  a  colos- 
sal genius  —  and,  of  course,  Reggie." 

"  Look  out.  We're  going  round  a  rather  sharp 
corner." 

"  I  tried  to  persuade  Eunice  Dinwiddie  to  come 
too.  A  wonderful  girl  —  an  American ;  the  most 
beautiful  and  distinguished  creature.  I  wish  I  could 
have  got  her.  Oh,  Eunice  is  really  surprising, 
she—" 

"  Eunice,"  said  Edward  meditatively.  "  Eu- 
nice?" He  was  impressed  by  the  name.  It  seemed 
significant. 

"  Oh,  and  one  of  our  wedding  guests  was  a  pros- 
titute,—  a  real  prostitute.  Think  of  that!  '  Pros- 
titute '  is  such  a  beautiful  word;  I'm  always  bringing 
it    into    my    lectures.     I    arranged    everything,    of 


The  Buffoon  37 

course.  I  even  ordered  the  champagne.  Sweet 
champagne." 

"  What!  "  cried  Edward,  turning  with  a  look  of 
horror. 

*'  Very  sweet.     I  like  it  very  sweet." 

*'  Creaming  Sillery,"  murmured  Edward  with  a 
groan. 

"  Sillery !  How  lovely  and  loose  and  blurred  that 
sounds!  I  hope  it  was  Sillery.  I  forget.  How- 
ever, they  were  all  drunk.  We  drank  to  Spain  — 
the  first  time  Spain  has  been  toasted  in  England  since 
the  reign  of  Bloody  Mary!  The  Catholic  was  very 
sick.  He  leaned  over  the  parapet  and  was  sick  into 
the  river,  while  the  Archangel  discoursed  to  him 
about  the  vices  of  priests.  What  a  scene !  He  was 
quite  ill  afterwards.     He  had  to  go  to  bed." 

"  I  don't  wonder." 

"  But  Ethelle  —  the  prostitute  —  I  wish  you  could 
have  seen  Ethelle.  I'd  bought  her  a  coloured  silk 
dress  and  a  big  hat  with  feathers  and  cherries.  She 
was  enchanted!  I  transformed  her,  I  really  did. 
Oh,  you  must  meet  Ethelle.  I  discovered  her,  I 
found  her  in  a  tavern,  —  the  lowest  of  all  taverns. 
Off  the  Vauxhall  Bridge  Road.  She  was  battered  and 
dirty :  soiled  —  she  was  soiled.  Reduced  to  the  very 
last  stage;  consumptive,  too.  I  am  always  drawn 
to  the  consumptive  type.  There  she  was,  jeering  and 
gibing  among  the  riff-raff, —  a  derelict,  a  debris,  a 
litter!     I  didn't  speak  to  her  then.     I  went  away: 


38  The  Buffoon 


I  lost  her.  But  I  came  back,  and  —  isn't  It  ?Lm?LZ- 
ing?  —  I  found  her  —  yes,  I  found  her!  And  I 
changed  her  from  a  sordid  pathetic  drab  to  a  glit- 
tering courtesan !  But  fancy  finding  a  girl  in  Lon- 
don.    It  was  Fate;  no  doubt  of  It,  it  was  Fate." 

"  Where  did  you  find  her?  " 

"  Oh,  quite  near  the  same  tavern.  In  the  street. 
She  was  just  walking  up  and  down.     Up  and  down." 

"  Her  beat,  evidently.  What  have  you  done  with 
her  now?  " 

"  I  sent  her  down  to  Liverpool.  I  knew  old  Tom 
would  look  after  her.  He  lives  there,  you  know, — 
Tom  Fielding.  I  must  go  and  see  how  she's  getting 
on.  Come  with  me.  We'll  go  together.  What  an 
adventure!  Ethelle  is  really  beautiful,  too.  Yes," 
he  went  on  thoughtfully,  "  quite  a  different  type  of 
beauty  from  Gertrude's.  I  am  with  Ethelle:  then 
I  go  back,  I  go  back  to  Gertrude.  I  pass  from 
Ethelle's  beauty  to  Gertrude's  beauty." 

"Who  is  Gertrude?" 

"  My  wife." 

Edward  jumped.  Welsh  was  incredible.  No 
other  man  could  have  said  that  without  being  a  cad, 
but  Welsh  was  not  a  cad.  He  was  In  fact  Immune 
from  caddlshness.     It  was  strange. 

"  How  well  you  can  deal  with  things,  Mr. 
Raynes !  "  Welsh  had  abruptly  broken  off  his  aesthe- 
tic reminiscences.  "  Upon  my  word  I  admire  you. 
I  admire  you  !  " 

His  tone  was  almost  servile.     Edward  suspected 


The  Buffoo7i  39 

in  him  a  mania  for  placating  people.  Was  it  that 
Welsh  felt  unable  to  "  deal  with  "  them  in  any  other 
way?  Edward  looked  at  him  sharply  and  wished 
he  would  not  keep  his  mouth  open  so  very  wide. 

"What  is  your  cult?"  Welsh  demanded  after  a 
pause. 

Edward  recognised  the  language  of  what  Tryers 
had  referred  to  as  "  the  circle."  "  I  am  quite  nor- 
mal," he  replied. 

"  Ah  — "  Welsh  opened  his  mouth  more  widely 
still.  "  Ah,  that  scoundrel  Reggie !  From  a  few 
little  hints  he  let  fall,  I  —  well,  you  must  meet  Tom 
Fielding.  Yes,  it  would  be  excellent  for  you  two  to 
encounter.     We  must  arrange  it." 

"  I  am  often  in  Liverpool." 

*'  We  are  all  of  us  often  in  Liverpool.  Of  course. 
I  should  have  known.  Good, —  very  good." 
Welsh  pronounced  these  last  words  as  though  he 
were  making  advances  to  a  dog  who  might  snap  if  it 
weren't  humoured. 

They  drove  on  in  silence  until  Welsh  began  to  ex- 
patiate on  the  beauties  of  the  Sussex  downs  and 
woods. 

"  This  country  pleases  me,"  he  concluded.  "  And 
when  there  is  sun !  I  should  like  to  be  always  in  the 
sun.  I  can  be  perfectly  happy  then.  At  other  times 
I  have  inhibitions  —  you  understand  me,  Mr. 
Raynes  ?  —  taboos  —  of  the  very  strangest  kinds.  I 
am  not  allowed  to  do  this  or  that;  I  am  held  back. 
A  whimsical  tyranny.     The  sun  frees  me.     The  sun 


40  The  Buffoon 

or  desire.  Yes,  I  am  at  the  perpetual  mercy  of  a 
Demogorgon.  But  really  you  know  at  bottom  I  am 
astonishingly,  incredibly  proud." 

"  Your  nerves  are  probably  a  bit  wrong.  You 
mustn't  eat  nothing  but  bread-and-milk  and  eggs 
when  you're  with  me.  I'll  give  you  underdone  steak 
and  Burgundy." 

"  But  wine  gives  me  appalling  dyspepsia,  and  I 
can't  eat  meat.  The  idea  of  butchering  animals  in 
those  slaughter-houses  is  horrible  to  me.  If  I  could 
kill  them  myself  I  might  eat  them.  I  can  sometimes 
eat  a  chicken  if  I  can  imagine  that  I  have  killed  it." 

"  I'll  have  a  chicken  brought  in  alive,  and  you 
shall  wring  its  neck." 

"  Good  God !  "  Welsh  gave  a  leap.  "  I  couldn't 
do  that." 

"  All  right.  You  can  imagine  you  have  wrung 
its  neck  then.  And  perhaps  you'd  better  take  claret. 
I  believe  I've  got  a  claret  that  won't  give  you  dyspep- 
sia." 

"  Oh,  you  keep  good  wine.  I'm  rather  sorry.  I 
never  get  on  with  connoisseurs  or  clubmen  or  people 
of  that  sort.  None  of  my  friends  know  anything 
about  wine." 

"  That's  probably  why  wine  always  gives  you 
dyspepsia." 

They  had  reached  Edward's  cottage.  Welsh 
broke  out  into  ecstasies  over  the  garden.  "  Gera- 
niums 1  "  he  exclaimed.  "  My  favourite  of  all  flow- 
ers 1     Geraniums.     How  beautiful  they  are !     Gera- 


The  Buffoon  41 

niums!  And  those  hollyhocks  and  pansies!  Mr. 
Raynes,  I  envy  you.  You  know  how  to  live,  indeed 
you  do." 

Edward  was  too  much  taken  up  with  the  prospect 
of  getting  Welsh  safely  out  of  the  pony-cart  to  pay 
much  heed  to  these  eulogistic  cries.  "  Yes,  a  pleas- 
ant little  garden,"  he  said,  and  before  he  had  time 
to  stop  him,  Welsh  was  scrambling  forth  as  though 
he  were  climbing  down  a  cliff.  Edward  kept  a  tight 
hand  on  the  reins  while  his  guest  completed  the  de- 
scent by  ahghting  heavily  on  both  feet  at  once. 


I 


CHAPTER  IV 

''X  WONDER  when  Reggie  will  be  here,"  said 
Welsh,  as  Edward  took  him  upstairs. 
"  Poor  Reggie !  oh,  poor  Reggie  1  "  He 
laughed  silently. 

"  Tell  me  what  you  think  of  Tryers." 

"  He  tries  to  interfere  with  my  comfort,"  Welsh 
replied.  "  He  tries  as  hard  as  he  can.  Whenever 
we  meet  he  begins  talking  about  my  vices.  Well,  I 
don't  object  to  that.  We  none  of  us  object  to  that. 
He  snaps  down  at  me  like  a  steel  spring  —  he  is  a 
steel  spring.  My  dear  Mr.  Raynes,  what  a  beauti- 
ful room!  "  Welsh  pronounced  the  adjective  with 
inordinate  stress  on  the  first  syllable.  "  BeaiitiixA ! 
And  I  can  see  all  your  garden.  This  is  really  excit- 
ing. And  Reggie  at  the  Inn!  You  are  a  master, 
you  are  indeed.     Well!  " 

He  sat  down  on  the  floor  by  the  window.  Ed- 
ward took  a  chair  opposite  him, 

"  Ah  yes —  Reggie  — "  Welsh  continued,  "  I  let 
him  talk  —  I  listen  to  these  interesting  disquisitions 
on  my  character.  But  then  he  gets  angry  because  I 
don't  get  angry,  his  voice  gets  shriller  and  shriller. 
I  seem  to  have  a  peculiarly  irritating  effect  upon  him. 
He  is  always  asking  me  why  I  do  this  and  that.     As 

42 


rhe  Buffoon  43 

If  I  knew.  He  Is  always  telling  me  that  I  am  ex- 
travagantly selfish.  Once  after  he  had  been  staying 
with  us,  we  were  walking  to  the  station  from  my 
house  —  it's  about  three  miles  —  and  he  scolded  me 
the  whole  time  about  my  being  selfish.  He  gave 
me  his  bag  to  carry,  so  that  he  might  be  freer  to  em- 
phasise his  points  by  gesture.  I  carried  his  bag  for 
two  and  a  half  miles,  and  he  was  talking  about  the 
beauty  of  altruism  all  the  time." 

"  He  amuses  you  then?  " 

*'  Oh,  he  amuses  me,  but  he  doesn't  like  amusing 
me  at  all.  As  a  matter  of  fact,"  Welsh  added 
gravely  and  confidentially,  "  he  hates  me.  His 
spleen  against  me  is  terrific.  That's  why  I  really 
think  there  is  some  distinction  about  Reggie;  he  can 
feel  so  ferociously.  I've  seen  him  literally  consumed 
with  hatred:  he  seemed  to  shrivel.  What  inten- 
sity!" 

"  What  kind  of  things  does  he  say  to  you?  " 

"  He  says  that  my  existence  makes  him  believe  In 
the  reality  of  a  Spirit  of  Evil.  Sometimes  he  says 
that  It  convinces  him  that  there  Is  no  God  —  or  that 
there  must  be  a  God.  I  forget  which.  He  Is  al- 
ways saying  things  like  that.  Yes,  he  certainly  hates 
me.  I  have  treated  his  sister  badly,  I  know,  but  he 
always  encouraged  me  —  said  she  wouldn't  mind,  it 
was  what  she  expected,  and  that  domestic  virtues 
were  absurd,  and  that  women  had  no  souls,  —  that 
kind  of  thing.  I'm  married  to  his  sister,  you  know," 
he  added. 


44  The  Buffoon 

"  Do  you  always  do  what  Tryers  encourages  you 
to  do?" 

"  Nearly  always.  I'm  like  that.  I  can't  stand 
holding  out.  That  kind  of  active  discomfort  is  in- 
tolerable." 

"  I  should  have  thought  that  you  gave  yourself  — 
if  I  may  say  so  • —  an  extremely  uncomfortable  kind 
of  hfe." 

"  Good  Lord !  I'm  devoted  to  my  comfort.  I'm 
quite  shameless  about  it." 

"  Well  done.  I  only  meant  —  if  I  may  be  so  free 
—  but  isn't  it  uncomfortable  not  to  know  how  to  get 
in  and  out  of  a  pony-cart?  " 

Welsh  opened  his  eyes.  "  Oh,  I  can't  ever  do 
things  of  that  sort.  It's  a  perpetual  miracle  to  me 
that  other  people  can.  Existence  at  every  turn 
seems  to  demand  extraordinary  skill  on  the  part  of 
human  beings  —  skill  in  putting  on  clothes,  skill  in 
taking  them  off,  skill  in  going  on  a  journey,  in  eat- 
ing one's  food,  even.  It  amazes  me,  the  skill  of  my 
fellow-creatures." 

"  It  is  their  lack  of  skill  that  amazes  me,"  Ed- 
ward rejoined  feelingly.  "  Most  people  do  every- 
thing amateurishly.  They  manage  all  these  things 
you  speak  of  in  a  raw,  imperfect  way  —  eating,  dress- 
ing, and  going  about.  No  art,  no  feeling  —  none  of 
the  right  kind  of  pleasure  in  what  they  do.  I  think 
on  the  whole  I  prefer  your  way  to  theirs.  They  do 
what  is  just  necessary,  in  their  gross  usual  way.  You 
give  it  up  altogether." 


The  Buffoon  45 

Welsh  prised  his  body  from  the  floor. 

"That's  It!"  he  cried.  "That's  it!  Quite 
right !  quite  right !  You  are  an  artist.  I  knew  it  — 
I  was  sure  of  it !  I'm  not  an  artist  —  I  never  could 
be.  Poetry,  romance,  rhetoric  —  yes  —  but  art  is 
beyond  me.     I  sit  at  your  feet." 

He  went  to  his  bag  and  opened  it.  It  flew  asun- 
der, and  as  Welsh  held  it  sideways,  the  contents  shot 
out  on  the  floor.  A  collar-stud  rolled  swiftly  to  a 
corner  under  the  bed.  There  were  half  a  dozen 
books,  two  or  three  crumpled-up  woollen  shirts,  very 
thick,  several  pairs  of  terrific  worsted  socks,  and  a 
dilapidated  pair  of  white  flannel  trousers,  with  a 
large  tear  through  which  protruded  a  toothbrush. 
A  pocket-comb  was  stuck  between  the  leaves  of  one 
book,  a  shaving-brush  between  the  leaves  of  another. 
Edward's  view  was  tormented  by  one  perfectly  hor- 
rible boot,  dirty,  with  a  hideous  broad  toe,  and  brass 
hooks  which  stood  out  straight  from  the  "  uppers." 

Welsh  returned  to  his  seat  on  the  floor,  abandon- 
ing the  mess  vomited  by  his  bag.  He  looked  dis- 
mayed by  the  prospect  of  coping  with  it. 

*'  You  see,"  he  went  on,  "  Reggie  brought  me 
down  here  so  that  I  might  be  humiliated.  He 
thought  to  himself:  'Now  I'll  show  you  what  a 
grotesque  creature  you  really  are  —  now  I'll  have 
my  revenge.  You  shall  see  the  kind  of  figure  you 
cut  before  a  man  of  the  world.'  He's  always  telling 
me  that  any  really  civilised  person  would  find  mc 
impossible  —  any  civilised  man^  he  says.     Women, 


46  The  Buffoon 

of  course,  don't  count.  You  represent  for  Reggie 
the  very  highest  point  of  the  cultivated  life.  Your 
manners  are  the  finest,  your  taste  the  most  exquisite, 
your  breeding  the  most  perfect." 

"  I'm  afraid  he  doesn't  think  so  now." 

"  Oh  yes,  he  does.  I'm  sure  he  does.  He'd  for- 
give you  anything.  All  his  rancour  will  be  for  me. 
He  would  never  hate  you.  You  can  deal  with  the 
world,  you  have  money,  you  have  position." 

"  I  didn't  know  I  had  any  position." 

"  Reggie  thinks  so.  It's  what  we  call  a  position. 
Anyhow,  Reggie  is  tremendously  proud  of  you.  He 
is  alway?  saying  that  you  would  put  me  to  shame. 
I  am  a  boor,  he  says,  and  only  fit  for  the  company  of 
boors.  He  expected  to  have  some  of  the  happiest 
days  of  his  life  down  here,  with  you  and  me.  Poor 
Reggie!  But  he'll  never  forgive  me.  If  only  he 
could  whip  me  and  stand  me  in  the  corner!  He 
might  recover  then." 

"  Let's  go  down  and  have  some  tea,"  said  Edward. 


CHAPTER  V. 

TRYERS  returned  as  they  were  finishing  their 
second  cups.  He  had  evidently  been  walk- 
ing at  a  tremendous  rate.  His  face  was 
shining  and  his  collar  was  limp.  Edward  offered 
him  tea. 

Tryers  struck  a  match  vigorously.  "  No  tea  for 
me,"  he  said  as  he  lit  his  cigarette.  "  I  am  not  in 
the  mood  for  tea.  And  what  are  you  thinking  of?  " 
He  turned  fiercely  to  Welsh,  who  was  regarding  him 
with  interest. 

"  Your  nose,"  replied  Welsh,  simply. 

Tryers  was  speechless.  His  nose  was  long  and 
pointed.  It  looked  particularly  protrusive  when  he 
was  hot. 

"Well  —  I — "  he  stammered.  "You  are  sim- 
ply disgusting.  Jack." 

"  Come,  come,"  Edward  intercepted,  "  you  asked 
him.  If  you  won't  take  tea,  we  might  all  go  for  a 
walk.  My  friend  George  Forrest  will  join  us.  He 
said  he'd  be  round  at  a  quarter  past  five.  An  ad- 
mirable man.  To  know  him  is  to  love  him.  He 
reminds  me  of  you  in  some  ways,  Tryers."  Tryers 
looked  suspicious.  "  He  has  wonderful  energy  and 
a  great  deal  of  conscience." 

47 


48  The  Buffoon 


"  Yes,  Reggie,"  Welsh  put  In,  '*  I  always  said  you 
had  conscience.  The  Cardinal  Newman  element  in 
your  face  will  triumph,  my  friend." 

"  You'll  probably  meet  George  again  at  breakfast 
to-morrow.  An  aunt  of  his  Is  down  here  staying  at 
the  Inn,  and  to-morrow  he's  breakfasting  with  her. 
Do  remember  to  tell  the  aunt  to  order  kidneys. 
George  is  extremely  fond  of  kidneys.  Grilled,  of 
course.  Tryers,  you'll  really  like  George.  He  Is  an 
Important  person  here.  He  Is  just  like  the  Bishop 
of  London.  He  has  a  wonderful  way  with  young 
people.  You  remember  that  pretty  little  girl  you  ad- 
mired last  time  you  were  here  —  Norah  Weekes? 
He  knows  her  quite  well.     He'll  Introduce  you." 

Tryers'  eyes  glistened,  and  Welsh  began  to  listen 
attentively. 

"  You  might  do  worse,  you  know,  than  breakfast 
with  George.  Yes,  he  has  great  Influence  here,  great 
influence.  His  cousin  —  I  think  it  was  his  cousin  — 
married  a  man  whose  uncle  by  marriage  Is  —  or  was 
—  a  lord.  A  useful  man,  George.  But  shall  we 
go?" 

They  met  George  Forrest  just  outside  the  garden 
gate.  He  was  punctual  to  the  moment,  as  Edward 
had  calculated.  Tryers  showed  a  disposition  to  at- 
tach himself  exclusively  to  Edward,  and  they  soon 
fell  behind  the  other  two. 

"  Really,  Tryers,"  Edward  meditatively  regarded 
Welsh's  back  — "  you  ought  to  do  something  for 
your   brother-in-law.     You   ought  to   take   him   in 


The  Buffoon  49 

hand.  Don't  you  think  he  lets  himself  in  for  a  quite 
unnecessary  amount  of  agitation  and  discomfort?" 

"  He  likes  it,"  Tryers  retorted.  "  I'm  convinced 
that  he  likes  being  a  fool.     It's  simply  a  pose  — " 

"  I  doubt  it.  It's  a  queer  kind  of  laziness,  that's 
what  it  is." 

"  Yes,  of  course  it's  laziness  —  sheer  laziness." 
Tryers  spoke  rapidly.  "  It's  exasperating,  how  lazy 
he  is.  He  could  easily  write  —  he  could  make  a 
name  for  himself,  if  he  only  tried.  But  he  won't. 
He  has  ideas,  of  a  sort  —  a  kind  of  imagination. 
But  it's  too  much  trouble  to  put  pen  to  paper.  Oh, 
you  wouldn't  have  much  patience  with  him,  I  can  tell 
you,  if  you  saw  as  much  of  him  as  I  do." 

"  Has  he  written  anything  at  all?  " 

"  Nothing  but  stray  poems  and  a  few  chapters  of  a 
disgraceful  novel." 

"  Oh,  I  must  encourage  him  to  finish  that." 

"  If  he  ever  gets  it  published,  it  will  break  his 
mother's  heart  —  yes,  that  I  know."  Tryers'  sylla- 
bles reminded  Edward  of  the  teeth  of  a  saw.  "  But 
he  won't  finish  it.     His  laziness  is  incurable." 

*'  You  really  must  cultivate  George  Forrest.  You 
would  agree  with  him  entirely.  He  hates  laziness 
just  as  much  as  you  do.  Personally  I  don't  see  why 
Welsh  shouldn't  be  lazy  if  he  likes,  but  I'm  sorry  he 
gets  so  little  out  of  it." 

"  He's  happy,"  said  Tryers  aggressively, 

"  Evidently  that  doesn't  please  you." 

"  No,  it  does  not  please  me."     Tryers  was  lashed 


50  The  Buffoon 

to  passion.  "  I  tell  you,  Raynes,  his  kind  of  happi- 
ness is  a  curse  —  it's  a  curse  to  him  and  a  curse  to 
every  one  who  meets  him.  He's  a  living  blight !  If 
you  knew  what  I've  suffered  from  that  man !  If 
there's  a  soul  alive  who  can  bring  up  all  that's  evil  in 
me,  it's  Jack  Welsh.  He  kills  —  yes,  kills  —  at 
once  and  without  mercy  —  everything  that's  good 
and  fine.  He's  corrosive.  —  When  I'm  with  him 
my  soul  is  simply  eaten  away  • —  eaten  away !  " 

"  Why  be  with  him,  then?  "  Edward  spoke  lightly, 
but  he  was  really  rather  attracted  by  Tryers'  savage 
intensity.  After  all,  the  man  was  more  distinguished 
than  George. 

Tryers  slashed  vehemently  at  a  flower  with  his 
stick. 

"  I  must  think  of  my  sister,"  he  replied.  "  I  can't 
leave  her  alone  to  Welsh.  His  cruelty  is  appalling 
—  you  can't  conceive  it  —  not  ordinary  cruelty.  He 
tortures  the  soul.  Everything  with  him  is  in  the 
brain.  Nothing  you  can  take  hold  of.  That's  why 
he  maddens  me.  He  suggests  to  me  the  most 
abominable  vices  —  he  doesn't  act  them  himself,  he 
can  only  enjoy  them  by  getting  other  people  to  act 
them.     That's  his  pleasure  —  the  devil !  " 

"  Very  interesting.  Do  you  think  he  would  sug- 
gest them  to  me?  " 

Tryers  halted  suddenly.  He  fronted  his  com- 
panion. 

"  Don't  be  frivolous  about  this,  Raynes,  I  implore 
you.     There  are  times  when  the  Oxford  manner  — " 


The  Buffo  071  51 

"  I  was  at  Cambridge." 

*'  I'm  in  earnest,  I  can  tell  you  —  deadly  earnest 
—  about  Welsh.  He  has  no  soul,  and  his  mission  is 
to  rob  other  people  of  theirs." 

"  Like  the  fox  without  a  tail?  " 

Tryers  turned  impatiently,  and  started  off  at  a 
rapid  pace  to  catch  up  with  the  others.  Edward 
clutched  at  his  coat-tails. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  he  remonstrated,  "  you  won't 
save  your  soul  by  walking  ten  miles  an  hour.  Go 
on  talking  to  me.     What  you  say  interests  me." 

Tryers  slowed  down,  but  was  silent.  Edward  had 
often  regretted  his  lack  of  humour.  The  comic  pa- 
pers gave  Tr}-ers  his  ideas  of  what  was  funny.  In 
his  lighter  moods  he  was  simply  intolerable ;  his  con- 
versation  suggested  a   facetious  scrap-book. 

"  You  said  something  in  your  letter  about  mental 
turmoil,"  Edward  remarked  after  awhile.  "  I 
rather  want  to  hear  about  that." 

"  You  wish  to  ridicule  me,  Raynes." 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind.  I  was  wondering  if  you 
had  brought  your  brother-in-law  as  a  sort  of  object- 
lesson." 

"  Not  altogether.  I  wanted  to  know  how  you 
would  take  him,  I  wanted  you  to  advise  me  in  deal- 
ing with  him." 

"  I  shouldn't  have  thought  Welsh  was  the  kind  of 
man  to  influence  you  much." 

"  I  thought  that  at  first.  That's  just  why  he's 
so  dangerous,  because  he  seems  such  a  fool.     But  he 


52  The  Buffoon 

can  talk,  he  can  work  in  your  mind.  I  think  he 
has  a  kind  of  hypnotic  power  —  hidden  away.  I  tell 
you  I  feel  that  I  have  him  in  my  blood  sometimes  — 
I  tell  you  how  it  is,"  Tryers  went  on  excitedly. 
"  His  own  body  won't  answer  to  his  horrible  brain  — 
you've  seen  for  yourself  that  he  has  no  command  of 
his  body  —  and  his  body  is  diseased.  Do  you 
know,"  Tryers  spoke  indignantly,  "  he  has  practi- 
cally no  stomach  at  all?  " 

**  Good  Lord,  how  uncomfortable !  I  can  forgive 
Welsh  anything  now.  No  soul  and  hardly  any  stom- 
ach! " 

Tryers  was  too  much  wrought  to  take  any  notice. 

"  You  see,  Raynes,  how  it  is.  It's  a  ghastly  busi- 
ness, all  this.  He  gets  me  —  gets  me  slowly  —  in 
his  way  —  and  then  he  shoots  his  poison.  I'm  the 
soobject." 

Edward  knew  that  Tryers  was  thoroughly  roused, 
because  he  had  begun  to  talk  with  a  North-country 
accent.  That  emphatic  broadening  of  the  vowels 
reinforced  his  speech.  Tryers  came  of  good  Nor- 
man yeoman  stock;  he  showed  his  origin  in  the  hard 
narrow  quality  of  his  tenacity,  in  that  energy  of  his 
that  drove  straight  furrows;  and  in  the  vigour  of 
his  frame. 

"  I'm  the  soobject,"  he  repeated.  "  He's  got  the 
physical  force  in  me  that  he  laacks,  and  the  will  for 
aaction.  He  can't  go  further  than  imaagine  evil  — 
he's  what  they  call  a  Cerebralist.  My  God!  "  he 
broke  out,  "  I  think  he  does  little  but  imaagine  evil 


The  Buffoon  53 

all  day  long !  And  he's  given  me  a  diseased  mind  in 
a  healthy  body,  thaat's  what  he's  done.  Thaat's 
what  he's  always  wanted  to  do,  and  meant  to  do, 
daamm  him!  " 

"  At  any  rate,"  said  Edward  gently,  "  I  hope  you 
get  some  enjoyment  out  of  your  wickedness." 

"  I  don't.  No,  not  real  enjoyment.  I'm  horribly 
disturbed,  I'm  in  a  fever,  when  I  give  myself  to 
evil.  Of  course  I  know,  Raynes,  that  you'll  say 
good  and  evil  have  no  real  existence,  that  our  lines 
between  them  are  artificial  and  foolish.  Nietzsche 
and  all  that."  Tryers  was  calmer  now.  "  But  I 
tell  you  that  I  am  sure  of  the  reality  of  evil  —  this 
last  year  has  made  me  sure  of  it.  Not  believe  in 
evil !  Man,  I  tell  you  that  Alexander  might  as  well 
have  not  believed  in  the  existence  of  the  Persians! 
If  you  fight  a  thing,  you  know  it's  real.  And  when 
I  lose  in  the  fight  I'm  miserable,  and  when  I  win  I'm 
restless  and  discontented  —  the  prey  of  desire.  All 
his  lust  in  my  veins  —  and  then  he  comes  in  with  his 
covert  taunts :  '  Oh,  my  friend,  well  done  !  I  ad- 
mire your  persistence,  I  really  do.'  And  I  see  it's 
all  a  farce  to  him.  I'm  in  it  for  his  amusement." 
Tryers  gritted  his  teeth. 

"  Rather  like  Jekyll  and  Hyde.  You  quite  thrill 
me. 

"  It's  not  like  Jekyll  and  Hyde.  It's  much  worse. 
I  wouldn't  mind  if  this  evil  were  part  of  my  own  na- 
ture. It  isn't  —  it's  not  in  me  at  all.  But  I'm  going 
to  get  out  of  it.     I've  made  up  my  mind." 


54  The  Buffoon 

"  Good.  By  the  bye,  I'm  not  so  sure  that  you 
should  have  met  George  Forrest,  after  all.  He 
might  Introduce  you  to  Norah  Weekes.  I  couldn't 
be  responsible  for  handing  over  that  poor  child  to 
this  demon  of  Welsh's,  could  I  now?" 

Tryers'  face  changed.  "  Don't,  Raynes  —  don't, 
I  entreat  you.  I  shouldn't  have  brought  Welsh 
here  if  I'd  remembered  that  girl.  He  mustn't  be 
allowed  to  see  her  —  to  see  her,  mind.  He  won't 
touch  her,  he  won't  even  talk  to  her  —  but  he'll 
think,  he'll  look  and  think.  I  know  it  sounds  ab- 
surd, but  that's  how  he  does  harm.  It  isn't  absurd 
really.  I  was  talking  to  an  Indian  the  other  day,  and 
he  quite  understood  it.  Said  that  infinite  harm 
might  be  done  by  looks  and  thoughts.  But  you 
torment  me  when  you  talk  of  Norah.  I  don't  think 
I  ought  to  have  come  myself,  with  her  here.  She 
stirs  up  all  those  awful  temptations — " 

Edward  laughed. 

"  My  dear  man,  why  be  so  serious  about  it  ?  For- 
give me  if  I  seem  Oxonian,  but  it  really  is  a  mis- 
take sometimes,  this  serious  point  of  view." 

"  Lust  Is  always  serious." 

"  Perhaps,  but  there  should  be  a  laugh  somewhere, 
and  it's  up  to  us  to  see  that  the  laugh  Is  on  our  side. 
Norah  is  simply  a  commonplace,  pretty  young 
creature,  very  conscious  of  her  sex  attraction,  ready 
enough  for  flirtations,  but  sensible  enough  to  keep 
herself  in  hand.  That's  all  there  is  in  it,  and  all 
there  ever  will  be.     If  you  want  to  amuse  yourself 


The  Buffoon  55 

with  the  girl,  go  ahead.  She  won't  be  troubled  by 
any  mental  turmoil.  But  I  shall  ask.  you  to  be  a 
little  discreet.  I'm  here  a  good  deal,  you  know,  and 
gossip  is  sometimes  a  nuisance.  It's  a  small  place. 
We're  not  in  Liverpool." 

*'  Ah,  Raynes,  that's  like  you."  Tryers'  face  had 
grown  tense  while  Edward  was  speaking.  "  Lust 
isn't  really  a  vice  of  yours,  I've  always  said  that. 
A  man  who  isn't  a  drunkard  can  enjoy  his  glass  and 
be  none  the  worse.  But  I'm  not  like  that.  Even 
if  I  didn't  harm  Norah,  she  would  harm  me.  But 
the  evil  in  me  would  touch  her,  I  know  it  would,"  he 
concluded  fiercely. 

"  Don't  flatter  yourself.  I  bet  you  a  sovereign 
to  half  a  crown  that  nothing  you  could  do  would 
hurt  Norah  in  the  least.     Go  on  and  try." 

Tryers  did  not  answer  at  once.  Then  very  de- 
cisively he  said:     "  I  won't." 

"  No,  I  won't.  This  is  the  time  to  begin  the 
struggle.  I  should  have  begun  —  really  begun  — 
before.  I've  been  weak  —  it's  that  man  has  made 
me  weak.  When  I  look  back,  I  see  how  he  started 
—  how  he  worked  it  all  out — " 

"  I  can't  believe  that  Welsh  would  ever  work  any- 
thing out." 

"  Oh  yes,  he  did.  He  undermined  my  Faith  — 
that  was  his  first  step.  He  didn't  do  it  himself. 
That  would  have  been  too  much  trouble,  and  he 
knows  he  can't  argue.  He  introduced  me  to  an 
Oxford  man  — " 


56  The  Buffoon 

"Oh,  these  Oxford  men!" 

"  —  the  most  devastating  materialist  I've  ever 
met."  Tryers  shuddered.  "  Then  he  would  talk 
himself  about  the  free  happy  Pagan  life  — '  freed 
from  all  Christian  hopes  and  fears  ' ;  as  his  friend 
O'Flaherty  put  it.  He  knew  my  passions  were 
strong.  He  knew  that  it  was  only  my  religion  — 
my  belief  in  immortality  —  that  saved  me  from  them. 
He  knew  that  the  one  sure  way  to  ruin  me  was  to 
take  away  my  Faith  and  let  my  passions  have  full 
swing." 

"  He  took  a  flattering  interest  in  you,  at  any  rate." 

"Flattering!  It  was  the  kind  of  game  that 
amused  him. —  And  then  when  I  yielded,  when  I 
went  his  way,  '  Are  you  so  sure,'  he'd  say,  '  that  this 
free  Pagan  life  is  the  best  after  all?  Won't  you  be 
sorry  in  the  end?  Aren't  you  a  little  sorry  even 
now?  Don't  you  sometimes  look  back  with  a  certain 
regret?'  Curse  him!  He  wouldn't  let  me  enjoy 
even  that  life,  though  it  was  he  who  had  seduced 
me!" 

"  Yes  —  that  was  unkind.  But  tell  me  what  are 
you  going  to  do  about  it?  " 

"  That's  where  I  want  your  help.  I  felt  I  must 
tell  you,  I  must  get  you  on  my  side.  I've  got  to  go 
through  an  awful  ordeal,  Raynes,  and  the  hardest 
thing  will  be  the  taunts  and  laughter  of  my  friends." 
A  couple  of  flies,  amorously  interlocked,  fell  on 
Tryers'  nose,  as  though  they  too  intended  to  join 
the  ranks  of  the  mockers.     "  That's  my  weak  point." 


The  Buffoon  57 

Tryers  flicked  angrily.  "  I'm  sensitive  to  ridicule. 
I  beg  of  you,  Raynes,  don't  make  it  any  harder  for 
me  to  win  back  my  Faith.  I  have  the  will  to  be- 
lieve, to  believe  again.  I  mean  to !  Don't  you 
stand  in  my  way." 

Edward  looked  at  him.  He  appeared  to  be  per- 
fectly sincere.  He  had  spoken  with  concentrated  de- 
termination, quietly,  and  with  a  certain  dignity.  Ed- 
ward reserved  judgment. 

"  Of  course  I  won't  stand  in  your  way,"  he  re- 
plied. "  You  know  what  I  think.  So  far  as  I  can 
make  out,  what  a  man  happens  to  believe  doesn't 
change  him  in  the  least.  You'll  be  just  the  same, 
with  faith  or  without.  When  I  came  here  first 
George  Forrest  was  a  staunch  Tory.  Now  he's  a 
vigorous  Radical.  But  he's  precisely  the  same 
George  Forrest." 

"Oh  —  politics!  That's  quite  another  thing. 
Religious  belief  will  make  all  the  difference  to  me." 

"  I  hope  it  will  take  well.  But  let  us  catch  them 
up.     Let  us  approach  this  seducer  of  human  souls." 


N 


CHAPTER  VI 

'^"^  "yOW  then,"  said  Welsh,  after  a  pause, 
twisting  and  screwing  his  absurd  straw 
hat  on  his  head,  "  now  then,  Mr. 
Raynes,"  he  said  hopefully,  "  let  us  talk  about  some- 
thing interesting." 

This  remark  made  Tryers  restive.  "  We  ought 
to  turn  now,  oughtn't  we?  "  he  suggested,  with  evi- 
dent ill-humour. 

*'  Certainly,"  Edward  replied,  "  we  will  turn  a 
little  later  on.  And  we  will  talk, —  if  possible  about 
something  interesting,  to  please  Mr.  Welsh." 

Tryers  brightened.  This  sounded  like  sarcasm. 
But  then  Jack  was  such  an  egotist,  he  never  would  un- 
derstand it ! 

Edward  was  silent  for  some  time,  thinking  about 
Welsh.  Tryers,  shaking  off  his  bad  temper,  began 
to  make  friends  with  George.  He  chatted  with  him 
in  a  clubable,  gentlemanly  way  about  cricket,  the 
Boy  Scouts,  and  Municipal  administration.  Mean- 
while Edward  looked  at  Welsh,  who  walked  with 
hunched  shoulders  by  his  side,  silent  and  absorbed. 
There  was  really  something  fine  about  the  man's 
face,  Edward  thought,  though  there  was  scarcely  a 
feature  that  would  bear  criticism.  The  nose  was 
thickened  at  the  bridge  and  slightly  flattened  at  the 

58 


rhe  Buffoon  59 

point.  It  had  a  curiously  unformed  animal  look. 
His  chin  at  first  gave  the  impression  of  being  strong 
and  broad  and  well  moulded,  but  in  profile  it  showed 
as  underhung  and  receding.  His  green  eyes  had  a 
shght  cast,  his  lips  were  thin  and  very  loose.  His 
forehead  was  like  a  girl's,  low  and  broad,  but  not 
massive:  his  short  hair,  with  its  tight  black  curls, 
grew  close  over  it,  in  level  line.  To  the  casual  ob- 
server the  man  would  be  either  remarkably  handsome 
or  grotesquely  ugly.  Yes,  every  one  would  get  a 
different  impression  from  his  face.  A  clever  photog- 
rapher could  have  made  of  him  either  a  lord  of  men 
or  a  despicable  ass.  Edward  was  baffled  and  in- 
terested. The  head  itself  did  give  an  effect  of  mas- 
siveness,  but  even  so  it  was  an  effect  that  one  felt 
could  not  be  trusted.  "  A  mock  face,  a  sham  coun- 
tenance," mused  Edward,  in  some  bewilderment. 
He  recalled  Welsh's  ridiculous  timidity,  the  abject 
mien  he  could  wear.  How  entirely  like  an  imbecile, 
and  again  how  almost  nobly,  he  could  look! 

Certainly  there  was  nothing  mediocre  about  him. 
He  was  not  a  charlatan,  not  true  to  that  type.  Ed- 
ward kept  watching  him.  At  one  moment  he  gave 
an  effect  of  unusual  harmony,  at  the  next  of  some- 
thing singularly  incomplete  and  formless. 

"  Yes,"  Tryers  was  saying,  "  it  won't  do  to  let  this 
Municipal  Socialism  go  too  far.  In  fact,  I  feel  that 
It  has  reached  its  limits  already.  You  remember 
what  Chamberlain  said  on  the  subject — " 

"A    renegade!"    George    broke    in    decisively. 


60  The  Buffoon 

"  The  man  was  a  renegade.  He  split  the  Party. 
Put  the  clock  back.  A  most  reactionary  influence,  I 
consider.     And  that  Tariff  Reform!  " 

Tryers  had  forgotten  that  his  companion  was  a 
Radical.  "Yes,  yes,"  he  replied  hurriedly,  "but 
when  Chamberlain  said  that  about  Municipal  Social- 
ism he  was  still  perfectly  sound." 

"  I  don't  believe  he  ever  was  sound." 

Edward  decided  to  change  the  subject.  "  Let's 
talk  about  something  that  really  matters,"  he  said. 

"That  really  matters!"  George  echoed  indig- 
nantly. "Doesn't  Free  Trade  matter?  Doesn't 
the  Food  of  the  People  matter?  " 

"  Ah,  George,  what  incorrigible  humorists  you 
Liberals  are.  If  we're  to  live  comfortably  without 
doing  any  work,  the  people  must  go  a  bit  short  on 
food.     Free  Trade  or  Protection  won't  alter  that." 

"  Pm  of  your  opinion,  Mr.  Raynes!"  Welsh 
declared  very  loudly  and  emphatically.  "  The  Peo- 
ple —  these  great  masses  of  our  fellow-creatures  — 
they  are  abominably  ill-used!  And  they  are  the 
noblest  of  us  all !  Think  of  all  the  vices  we  are  cursed 
with,  think  of  all  our  false  ideas  and  false  con- 
ventions! If  you  want  truth  and  simplicity  and 
candour  and  real  humanity,  you  must  go  to  the 
poor." 

"  Charming,"  Edward  replied.  "  Moral  pre- 
eminence of  the  greatest  number.  What  a  gener- 
ous tribute  to  our  social  system!     What  more  can 


The  Buffoon  61 

you  want !  All  the  same,  Mr.  Welsh,  the  poor  lead 
disgusting  lives,  and  they  are,  generally  speaking, 
disgusting  people." 

The  other  three  men  clamoured  in  protest. 

"  What  blasphemy!  "  cried  Welsh. 

"  A  gross  libel  on  the  British  working  classes," 
said  George. 

"  I  think  you  are  most  unfair,"  Tryers  chimed  in. 
"  The  poor  are  pretty  well  as  good  as  we  are,  at  any 
rate." 

Socialist  (for  Welsh  called  himself  a  Socialist), 
Radical,  and  Conservative  (Tryers  was  really  a 
Conservative)   were  unanimous  against  him. 

*'  Tell  me,  George,"  Edward  went  on,  "  are  you 
in  search  of  nobility  and  virtue  ?  Of  course  you  are. 
So  are  you,  Tryers;  don't  say  you're  not.  Follow 
Mr.  Welsh's  advice,  then.  Go  to  the  poor.  Then 
come  back  and  tell  me  all  about  it." 

"  Ah,  you're  a  cynic,"  exclaimed  Welsh.  "  A 
Gibbonian  ironist!  " 

George  was  still  indignant. 

"  But  I  do  see  a  great  deal  of  the  poor,"  he  said. 
"  The  movements  that  I'm  interested  in  are  always 
bringing  me  into  contact  with  them.  And  I  find 
them  a  good,  industrious,  conscientious,  clean-living 
lot  on  the  whole." 

"  Yes,  but  you  see  them  through  the  coloured 
glasses  of  these  Movements  of  yours.  They're  not 
themselves  with  you,  George.     You're  a  gentleman 


62  The  Buffoon 


to  them.  Of  course  they  know  all  the  time  that 
you're  running  them  as  a  hobby,  and  they  make  what 
they  can  out  of  it." 

"  I  don't  beheve  it.  Our  motto  is  comradeship 
—  comradeship  on  equal  terms." 

*'  You  don't  fool  them  there." 

"Fool  them!" 

"  When  you  get  born  again,  George,  be  born  a 
proletarian." 

"  I  will  be,"  cried  Welsh  excitedly,  "  upon  my 
soul,  I  will  be !  " 

"  Just  imagine  yourself,"  Edward  continued  to 
address  George,  "  as  a  real  proletarian,  with  any 
number  of  criminal  tendencies." 

"  Nonsense !  "  George  took  him  up  eagerly. 
*'  Most  of  the  poor  are  perfectly  decent  and  well- 
conducted  and  law-abiding." 

"  Then  they  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  themselves. 
If  a  poor  man  hasn't  criminal  tendencies  he  can't 
have  guts.  Why  should  he  have  all  our  restraints 
and  none  of  our  advantages?  What  use  is  the  law 
to  him?  Why  should  he  abide  by  it?  The  law  is 
for  us.  We've  made  it  to  protect  ourselves  and 
to  keep  the  poor  where  they  are." 

"Anarchy!  Anarchy!  Magnificent,  Mr.  Raynes! 
I  commend  you !  "     Welsh  was  delighted. 

"  You  are  certainly  right  there,"  George  gloomily 
observed.     "  It  is  anarchy." 

"  We  can  only  hope  that  Raynes  won't  go  and  tell 


The  Buffoon  63 

the  poor  all  about  it,"  said  Tryers  rather  feebly. 
He  was  piqued  by  losing  his  place  as  the  chief 
speaker. 

"  Anyhow,"  George  continued,  "  the  law  protects 
the  poor  nowadays.  We've  got  far  beyond 
mediaeval  injustice  and  tyranny  and  all  that. 
Abolish  law,  and  the  poor  would  be  the  first  to  suf- 
fer." 

"  I  don't  know,"  cried  Welsh.  "  Riots  — 
revolutions  —  the  barricades!  The  Sans-culottcs 
and  the  Terror!  There's  some  colour  about  that. 
Oh,  you  queer  son  of  chaos," —  he  turned  to  Edward 
— "  with  your  meteoric  bolts  !  " 

"  One  moment,"  Edward  said.  "  I  see  a  little 
white  skirt  fluttering  along  the  path  over  there. 
Isn't  that  your  friend,  George,  isn't  that  Norah?  " 

George  was  embarrassed.  "  Oh,  that  child?  "  he 
said  in  an  off-hand  way.  Both  Welsh  and  Tryers 
preserved  an  expectant  silence. 

"  And  now,"  Edward  broke  the  pause,  "  why  not 
consider  Mr.  Welsh  and  talk  of  something  interest- 
ing? Why  not  debate  on  Mr.  Welsh  himself?  Or 
shall  I  give  you  a  little  exposition  of  Mr.  George 
Forrest's  true  character?  " 

"  I  hope  you'll  spare  us  that  at  least,  Raynes." 
George  stiffened  at  once. 

Tr>'ers  began  picking  flowers  as  they  walked. 

"  There  you  are."  Edward  was  plaintive.  *'  I 
knew  George  would  be  up  in  arms.     He  thinks  we 


64  The  Buffoon 

mustn't  be  personal,  we  mustn't  be  too  intimate." 

"  Come  on,"  exclaimed  Welsh,  who  had  listened 
with  evident  approval,  "  come  on,  let's  do  it.  Let's 
all  discuss  each  other.  It's  a  splendid  idea!  I'll 
begin.     I'll  tell  you  all  about  Reggie  Tryers." 

Tryers  flushed.  "  I'm  sorry  to  hamper  your  in- 
teresting conversation,  Jack,  but  I'm  not  particularly 
anxious  to  be  blackguarded  in  public."  He  went 
on  picking  flowers  with  accelerated  energy. 

"  Well,  then,"  Edward  turned  to  George,  "  can't 
you  do  something?  Tell  them  about  me,  style  and 
substance  as  this  morning,  you  remember?"  He 
laid  his  hand  on  George's  arm. 

George  stammered  protestingly.  "  This  is  — 
really,  Raynes,  this  is  most  unfair." 

"  Welsh  says  I'm  a  son  of  chaos,  with  an  armoury 
of  meteoric  bolts,  and  you  say  I'm  a  son  of  luxury, 
idly  revolving  under  the  shadow  of  a  wasted  life. 
What  do  you  say  I  am,  Tryers?  " 

"  I  say  you  play  with  ideas  like  toys,  and  don't  care 
a  brass  farthing  about  anything."  Tryers  spoke 
brightly  and  defiantly. 

"  You're  certainly  a  very  wicked  man,  I've  no 
doubt  of  that,"  Welsh  remarked  with  enthusiasm. 
"How  fortunate!  It's  a  hobby  of  mine,  the  dis- 
covery of  really  wicked  men." 

"  But  '  wicked  '  means  nothing  at  all  — " 

"  You  prove  yourself  by  that,"  Welsh  exulted. 
"  Oh,  you  wicked  Mr.  Raynes !  You've  shown  us 
hoofs  and  tail." 


The  Buffoon  65 

"  We  all  have  them,  I  believe.  They  never  were 
distinctive." 

"  About  the  poor,"  George  unexpectedly  declared. 
His  thoughts  had  been  wandering,  he  spoke  now 
from  a  sense  of  duty.  "  About  the  poor.  You've 
no  idea  how  much  better  things  are." 

"  Surely,"  Tryers  followed  on,  "  the  modern 
tendency  is  all  towards  equality  of  opportunity." 
He  had  quite  a  handful  of  flowers  by  this  time. 

"  Ah — "  Edward  shaded  his  eyes,  "we  are  just 
in  time  to  intercept  our  little  Norah. —  Do  you  see? 
She  will  cross  our  path." 

Welsh  and  Tryers  had  both  kept  an  eye  on  Norah 
since  Edward's  indication  of  her.  They  now  in- 
stinctively quickened  their  steps.  George  cast  a  dis- 
approving glance  on  Edward,  and  carefully  fell  a 
little  behind.  They  all  got  over  the  stile  into  the 
high  road  before  him. 

"  A  pretty  creature,"  Edward  remarked  in  an  un- 
dertone, as  the  girl  came  towards  them.  She  had 
seen  them,  and  carried  herself  with  a  conscious 
aplomb.  "  For  complexion  she  couldn't  do  better, 
and  that  caught-in  underlip  is  really  provoking. 
Don't  you  think  so,  Tryers?  And  I'm  glad  she 
hasn't  put  her  hair  up  yet.  Hair  should  be  either 
quite  dark  or  blond  or  auburn:  the  between  shades 
are  always  tiresome.  Norah's  hair  is  black  enough 
to  give  the  idea  of  depth,  and  there's  so  much  of  it. 
Nice  longhair." 

"  And  quite  straight,"  Welsh  put  in. 


66  The  Buffoon 

"  Don't  stare  at  her  like  that,"  hissed  Tryers, 
"You'll  frighten  her!" 

"  I  like  straight  hair,"  Welsh  went  on. 

Norah  was  only  a  few  yards  from  them  now.  She 
turned  her  head  slightly  in  their  direction,  smiled 
very  rapidly,  and  walked  a  little  faster. 

"Norah!"  Edward  called.  "Don't  run  away 
from  us.  Mr.  Forrest  will  be  heart-broken  if  you 
run  away." 

The  girl  wavered  and  moved  a  little  away  from 
them,  drawing  back  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  road. 
Quite  the  right  thing  for  her  to  do,  Edward  noted. 
She  instinctively  avoided  behaving  like  either  a  minx 
or  a  prude. 

"  But  I'm  going  to  the  Farm,"  she  replied.  "  And 
I  must  get  back  home  soon  with  the  milk  —  and  the 
butter  —  and  the  eggs." 

Her  voice  was  pitched  low,  and  kept  almost  to  the 
same  level,  without  that  rise  and  fall  that  is  usual 
with  country  girls.  The  hesitation  between  every 
few  of  her  words  was  delicious  —  so  many  unspoken 
things  seemed  to  fill  those  interspaces  I  —  and  she 
laughed  when  she  had  finished  speaking,  with  veiled 
challenge. 

The  four  men  gravitated  slowly  and  spontaneously 
towards  her.  It  was  Welsh  who  fell  back  now, 
standing  just  behind  George,  observing  first  Norah 
and  then  Tryers  with  a  concentrated  intensity  of 
gaze.     If  any  admirer  of  his  could  have  seen  him 


The  Buffoon  67 

then,  she  would  have  been  sure  that  this  was  the  su- 
preme moment  of  his  poetic  inspiration. 

"  My  friends  here,"  Edward  continued  conversa- 
tionally, "  have  just  come  down  from  London. 
This  gentleman,"  he  indicated  Tryers,  "  is  an  artist. 
He  paints  beautiful  pictures." 

Norah  looked  suspiciously  at  Tryers,  who  was 
smiling  down  at  her.     She  turned  away. 

"  He  told  me,"  Edward  went  on,  "  that  he  wanted 
to  paint  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  village.  He  wants 
to  paint  you." 

Norah  laughed.  George  cleared  his  throat  and 
tapped  his  foot  on  the  ground.  Welsh  gazed 
without  moving  a  muscle.  "  You  do  like  teasing, 
Mr.  Raynes,"  said  the  girl,  still  laughing. 

Edward  appealed  to  Tryers.  "  Do  back  me  up," 
he  said.  "  This  young  lady  thinks  I  can't  tell  the 
truth." 

"  Of  course,  of  course."  Tryers'  tone  was  brisk 
and  business-like.  He  advanced  with  his  flowers 
and  handed  them  to  the  girl.  "  I  picked  these  for 
you,"  he  said,  lowering  his  voice. 

Norah  took  them  and  put  them  in  her  basket. 
"  Oh,  thank  you,  I'm  sure,"  she  said  discouragingly. 

However,  Edward  thought  he  might  as  well  "  fin- 
ish the  work  he  was  in."  "  Perhaps  to-morrow- 
morning?  "  he  said.  "  You're  generally  out  in  the 
morning,  aren't  you,  Norah?" 

Norah  looked  doubtfully  up  at  him.     She  rather 


68  The  Buffoon 

liked  Edward,  but  always  suspected  him  of  making 
fun  of  her.  She  was  on  her  guard.  "  Yes,  maybe," 
she  replied.  She  gave  a  glance  in  the  direction  of 
Welsh,  who  was  ferociously  absorbing  the  situation. 
His  aspect  scared  the  girl,  and  she  looked  away,  as 
though  for  protection,  to  George.  George  was  on 
the  stile,  embarrassed,  making  funny  little  move- 
ments with  his  stick. 

"  Well,  good-bye,"  Edward  continued.  "  You'll 
see,  you'll  have  a  beautiful  portrait." 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Tryers  reluctantly.  "  Good- 
bye for  the  present."  George  raised  his  hand,  and 
at  him  the  girl  smiled. 

The  four  men  went  on.  Edward  sharply  real- 
ised a  furtive  and  ashamed  change  in  himself,  in 
Tryers  and  in  George.  They  seemed  all  three  to 
have  become  obtrusively  and  awkwardly  sexed,  to 
be  labouring  under  the  effort  of  veiling  the  discom- 
fiture of  their  male  weakness,  of  forcing  an  aspect 
of  immunity,  of  '  getting  away  with  it.'  Dignity, 
to  all  three,  came  in  an  almost  farcical  way,  unin- 
vited, as  an  absurd  matter  of  course,  inevitably  in- 
cidental to  their  masculinity.  They  became  gro- 
tesquely smeared  over  with  the  likeness  of  animals 
that  go  In  herds.  Edward  felt  resentful.  He  did 
not  like  having  to  feel  furtive  and  ashamed  at  the 
command  of  his  ancestors:  he  did  not  like  losing 
himself  in  line  with  Tryers  and  George.  And  why 
was  Welsh  out  of  the  line?  He  was  jealous  of 
Welsh's    distinction.     The    lecturer    remained    ab- 


.    The  Buffoon  69 

sorbed,  ruminant,  quite  satisfied,  while  Edward  and 
the  other  two  were  mulcted,  teased  and  flicked, 
stupidly  driven  to  a  pretence  that  they  weren't. 

As  they  turned  the  corner  Edward  glanced  back 
and  saw  Norah  shaking  Tryers'  flowers  out  of  her 
basket.  Her  gesture  was  beautifully  light  and 
debonair.  How  easily  she  dealt  with  it  all!  But 
certainly  with  no  abatement  of  the  so  indomitable, 
the  so  superior,  tenacity  of  her  sex. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THEY  walked  In  silence  for  some  minutes: 
then  Tryers  said  suddenly:  "What  time 
in  the  morning  is  she  usually  out?  " 

"  Oh,  early  —  fairly  early.  Before  your  break- 
fast or  mine,"  Edward  Informed  him. 

"  She'd  be  just  round  about  here,  I  suppose?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  Through  the  village  —  up  to  the 
Farm  and  back  again  to  where  she  lives,  doing  er- 
rands and  that  kind  of  thing.  I  see  her  from  my 
window  pretty  well  every  morning." 

"  Oh !  "  Tryers  turned  to  George.  "  I  hope  you 
don't  object,"  he  said.     "  Of  course,  if  you  — " 

George  ruffled.  "  It  Is  no  business  whatever  of 
mine." 

"  No  harm  meant,  you  know."  Tryers  was  eager 
to  make  it  all  right.  George  said  nothing  more,  and 
a  few  minutes  later  when  they  reached  a  turning 
which  he  could  take  to  his  house  he  left  the  others 
rather  abruptly. 

Welsh  laid  a  hand  on  Edward's  shoulder. 
"Well,  Pandarus,"  he  said,  "well,  wicked  one! 
Oh,  corrupt,  corrupt!  What  unscrupulousness, 
what  mastery  of  the  art  I  These  diversions  of  a 
philosopher !  "     He  leered  at  him. 

"  I  see,"  Edward  replied,  "  these  excitements  are 

70 


The  Buffoon  71 

too  much  for  you.  Emulate  your  brother-in-law's 
remarkable  self-command." 

"And  Reggie!  "  Welsh  opened  his  mouth  and 
grinned  at  Tryers.  "Reggie  led  into  temptation! 
Ah,  how  you'll  suffer  for  this  later  on,  in  agony  and 
sweat!  " 

"  I  do  what  I  choose."  Tryers  turned  on  him. 
"  You  will  find  that  out,  too,  later  on,  that  I  do  what 
I  choose." 

"  Mr.  Raynes," — Welsh  clasped  Edward's  arm 
— "  my  brother-in-law  is  always  most  interesting  in 
this  kind  of  mood.  Pray  observe  him.  He  has 
fallen.  You  know  he  thinks  he  ought  to  lead  a 
monastic  life,  and  he's  quite  right:  he  has  the 
mediaeval  religious  nature.  He's  like  Saint  Au- 
gustine before  conversion.  He  has  reached  the 
stage  now  of  sinning  against  the  light.  The  most  in- 
teresting of  all  stages;  I  am  wondering  how  long  it 
will  last.  This  is  one  of  his  relapses  that  you've 
just  brought  about.  Reggie  alternates  just  now  be- 
tween the  divine  and  the  devilish  spirit." 

Tryers,  who  had  been  attempting  interruptions, 
could  now  hardly  speak  for  rage.  It  was  easy  to 
read  his  humiliation  by  this  presentment  of  him- 
self as  a  spectacle  turned  to  account  for  the  interest 
of  the  moment.  "  Damn  you,  Jack,"  he  gulped,  "  I 
won't  have  this.     You  are  a  cad." 

"  I'm  always  telling  him,"  Welsh  continued,  "  that 
he'd  really  be  happier  if  he  overcame  the  devilish 
mood  altogether.     His  energies,  you  see,  would  then 


72  The  Buffoon 

be  released.  He  would  be  more  tranquil,  more  at 
ease  —  and  he  would  produce.  He  might  plan 
some  great  Cathedral,  for  example,  to-morrow  morn- 
ing instead  of  pretending  to  sketch  little  Norah." 

"  What  a  tease  you  are !  "  Edward  laughed. 
"  For  all  you  know,  he  may  plan  his  Cathedral  after' 
lunch." 

"  No,  he  won't.  He'll  be  either  suffering  the  tor- 
ments of  repentance  or  the  torments  of  desire." 
Welsh's  eyes  glistened. 

Tryers  looked  at  him  with  savage  persistency  of 
hatred.  "  Well,"  he  said,  as  with  his  back  to  the 
wall,  "  at  any  rate,  Raynes,  this  shows  you  the  truth 
of  what  I  was  telling  you." 

Edward  steered  out  of  danger.  "  And  you,  Mr. 
Welsh,"  he  observed  politely,  "  you,  I  suppose,  are 
remote  from  the  usual  temptations.  You  stand 
apart,  a  spectator,  regarding  with  philosophic  calm 
the  frailties  of  men,  and  putting  them  all  in  their 
place." 

"Well — "  the  other  hesitated,  "  I  admit  that  I 
find  it  a  little  fatiguing  —  a  trifle  tiresome,  to  deal 
with  —  er  —  objective  matter.  It's  not  in  my  line. 
I  find  it  so  much  more  easy,  more  satisfactory,  simply 
to  imagine.  '  Whosoever  looketh  on  a  woman  — ' 
—  you  remember?  " 

"  That  text  must  be  very  consoling  to  you." 

"  Ah,  it  is!  it  is!  "  Welsh  was  radiant.  "  Some- 
how —  I  don't  know  why  —  but  the  circumstances  of 
the  quest  —  the  apparatuses  —  the  things  you  have 


The  Buffoon  73 

to  do,  the  ways  you  have  to  go  about  it  —  they  are  all 
so  very  troublesome,  so  very  commonplace,  so  very 
vulgar.  I  really  cannot. —  And  my  material  is  so 
simple.  I  am  content  with  almost  anything.  The 
beach  at  Littlehampton  in  the  summer,  for  example. 
It  is  quite  enough  for  me  to  sit  there.  I  can  sit  on 
that  beach  for  hours  together." 

"  Holding  a  silent  orgy?  "  inquired  Edward.  "  I 
should  have  thought  that  was  rather  exhausting." 

"  So  it  is,"  Tryers  exclaimed  indignantly. 
"  That's  why  Welsh  has  this  frightful  nervous 
dyspepsia.  It's  all  through  that  cursed  Cerebralism 
of  his." 

"It's  worth  it!"  cried  Welsh. 

Tryers  shuddered, —  all  over  his  body,  as  he  often 
did,  suggesting  a  snake.  "  It's  horrible,"  he  said 
with  conviction. 

"  Just  think,"  Welsh  branched  off,  "  what  a  priest 
you  would  make,  Reggie.  You  are  cut  out  for  a 
priest.  Think  of  the  confessions !  You  would  un- 
derstand everything  so  well  —  oh,  I  can  just  hear 
you,  counselling  your  penitents.  How  exciting! 
In  a  church  you  had  planned  yourself,  with  infinite 
care !  —  And  the  next  morning,  when  they  came  up 
to  the  Altar  Rails  —  repentant  —  these  passionate 
eager  boys  and  tremulous  yielding  girls  —  human  — 
all  —  too  —  human !  Ah,  how  much  you  could 
make  of  that !  You  would  know  it  all,  remember, — 
they  would  glance  up  at  you,  they  would  know  that 
you  knew  it  all.     How  shyly  they  would  glance,  with 


74  The  Buffoon 

what  exquisite  shame !  And  you  would  be  their 
priest.  They  must  tell  you.  Can't  you  imagine 
their  sweet  reluctance,  their  pain  —  and  with  their 
pain  a  certain  dangerous  pleasure?  Oh,  what  sen- 
sations !  " 

Tryers  coloured  deeply:  he  was  moved.  "You 
are  a  devil,"  he  said,  swishing  with  his  stick.  "  I 
wish  I  had  never  met  you." 

"  My  dear  Reggie,"  Welsh  spoke  with  a  con- 
temptuous reminiscence  that  surprised  Edward, 
"  you  were  nothing  when  I  met  you  first.  It  is  I 
who  have  educated  you."  He  seemed  to  expand  as 
he  spoke,  to  be  somehow  blown  out. 

"  You  damnable  egotist !  You've  done  nothing 
for  me,  except  to  bring  up  and  exaggerate  my  worst 
qualities.     That's  what  I  was  telling  Raynes." 

"  I  think  you  hate  yourself  too  when  you  hate  me," 
Welsh  blandly  remarked,  "  don't  you,  Reggie,  just 
a  little?" 

Tryers  did  not  answer.  His  face  was  set.  It 
seemed  to  contain  an  extraordinary  number  of  sharp 
angles.  Edward,  looking  at  him,  wondered  how  he 
managed  to  shave  without  cutting  himself.  His 
nose  gave  the  impression  of  being  part  of  a  geometri- 
cal figure. 

"  I  mean  to  get  out  of  it  all,"  he  said  after  the 
pause.  "  You  shall  see.  I  will  not  be  tormented  by 
you,  or  through  you,  any  longer."  His  cheeks  kept 
their  flush. 

There  was  another  silence  between  the  three  men. 


The  Buffoon  75 

Edward  broke  it.  "  Have  you  ever,"  he  asked 
Tryers  in  his  equable  way,  "  have  you  ever  thought 
of  marriage  as  a  possible  escape?  " 

"Marriage!"  Tryers  started  as  though  a  bee 
were  on  him.  "  Certainly  not.  Never.  It  is 
servitude :  it  is  degradation.  It  is  cutting  one's  life 
out;  it  is  mutilation."     He  shivered. 

Edward  smiled,  recalling  the  singular  adroitness 
that  Tryers  had  displayed  in  marrying  off  his  three 
sisters,  all  of  them  to  "  old  College  pals." 

"  Besides,"  Tryers  continued,  "  you  know  what  I 
feel  about  women.  Apart  from  a  very  transient  sex- 
attraction  —  they  lose  it  for  me  nearly  always  as 
soon  as  they  leave  off  being  girls  —  I  find  them  in- 
tolerable. I  avoid  places  where  there  are  likely  to 
be  many  of  them,  I  get  as  far  away  from  them  as 
possible  in  restaurants.  I  avoid  them  as  I  would 
dogs,  and  dogs  I  detest." 

*'  There  is  something  in  what  he  says,"  Welsh 
commented  thoughtfully.  "If  you  ever  happen  to 
overhear  women  talking  among  themselves,  it  really 
is  most  unpleasant.  They  are  like  some  sort  of  dis- 
turbing insect." 

"  I  have  to  deal  with  them  professionally  some- 
times," Tryers  went  heatedly  on.  "  That's  one  of 
my  worst  trials.  They  seem  to  have  even  worse 
taste  in  architecture  than  they  have  in  everything 
else.     Upon  my  word !  " 

"  I'm  with  you,  Reggie."  Welsh  spoke  without 
the  other's  enthusiasm  in  hostility.     He  did  not  seem 


76  The  Buffoo7i 

to  be  much  interested.  "  Here  at  least,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  we  join  hands.  There  is  certainly  some- 
thing ineradicably  gross  and  unfastidious  about  the 
feminine  temperament.  Their  feelings  are  blunter, 
their  emotional  range  is  far  less  wide." 

"  Of  course,"  Tryers  broke  in  eagerly.  "  If  a 
little  girl  cuts  her  finger,  it's  nothing  to  her :  a  little 
boy  suffers  real  pain.  No  man  could  survive  child- 
bearing," 

"  Perhaps  not,"  said  Edward,  "  if  they  wore 
corsets.     But  they  wouldn't." 

"  Don't  talk  of  corsets,"  Tryers  interjected,  "  you 
make  me  feel  ill.  They  are  almost  as  unpleasant  to 
think  of  as  hair-pins." 

"  Yes,"  Welsh  agreed,  "  do  let  us  choose  a  more 
pleasing  subject." 

"  Where  women  are  unpleasant,"  said  Edward, 
"  it's  simply  because  they've  been  stupidly  treated. 
Same  with  the  proletariat.  You  have  them  as  you've 
bred  them,  that's  always  the  way." 

"  Well,  they've  had  their  revenge,"  Welsh  spoke 
decidedly.  "  They've  had  their  revenge,  and  they're 
having  it  all  the  time.  In  England  they  have  it 
more  completely  than  anywhere  else." 

"How  about  America?"  Edward  asked. 
*'  You've  been  in  America  a  good  deal  for  lecturing, 
haven't  you  ?  Haven't  women  revenged  themselves 
over  there?  " 

"  Well,  no,  they  haven't  —  not  really.  The 
American  women  are  dominant,  of  course,  in  their 


rhe  Buffoon  11 

way.  The  men  fetch  and  carry  for  them  and  give 
them  all  the  money  they  want.  But  the  two  sexes 
there  are  in  separate  spheres,  women  aren't  forever 
dragging  the  men  over  the  line  into  their  ground, 
and  mixing  them  up  with  their  little  snobberies  and 
spites  and  imbecilities.  The  American  man  is  really 
wonderfully  independent.  You'd  think  he  was  be- 
ing tyrannised  over,  to  see  him  with  his  women,  but 
he  isn't.  It  is  we  Englishmen  who  are  the  slaves, 
really:  it  is  our  individuality  that  is  always  being  in- 
vaded. Yes,  I'm  sure  these  things  are  better  man- 
aged in  America." 

"  Sounds  quite  probable."  Edward  was  inter- 
ested. "  In  England  the  women  are  restive,  they're 
always  trying  to  get  even.  In  America  there's  no 
need  for  them  to  get  even  at  all.  Much  more  satis- 
factory arrangement  all  round." 

"  The  American  man,"  Welsh  resumed,  "  is  ab- 
solute master  in  his  own  sphere.  He  has  his  busi- 
ness, his  politics,  his  sport,  most  of  his  other  amuse- 
ments, all  to  himself.  There  are  even  theatres 
where  only  men  go.  The  women  have  their  homes : 
they  manage  what  they  call  '  that  end  of  it,'  and 
quite  right.  I  hate  the  way  husbands  have  in  Eng- 
land of  fussing  about  their  houses  —  you  know  that 
insufferable  kind  of  discussion  —  improvements  in 
the  bathroom  or  the  garden  or  the  drainage.  One 
hears  nothing  else  in  some  families.  I  tell  you,  I 
have  blushed  for  my  sex !  " 

"  All  the  same,"  said  Tryers  combatively,  "  Amer- 


78  The  Buffoon 

ican  women  are  intolerable  too.  All  that  I've  ever 
met  talked  the  most  frightful  nonsense  about  art 
and  literature  and  morality  and  social  questions. 
They  seem  to  learn  up  a  number  of  catch-phrases, 
and  they  repeat  them  in  a  string  without  thinking. 
They  are  appallingly  ignorant,  really.  One  finds 
that  out  in  a  few  minutes. —  At  any  rate  English- 
women have  the  sense  to  talk  less." 

"  Why  shouldn't  women  talk?  "  said  Welsh  lazily. 
"  You  needn't  listen.  Englishwomen  expect  you  to 
talk  to  them;  that  is  much  worse.  I'd  far  rather 
have  to  do  with  the  Americans.  You  simply  sit  and 
say  monosyllables  now  and  then,  and  think  of  some- 
thing else.  It  is  far  less  trouble.  That's  another 
way  in  which  the  American  men  score." 

"  You  have  catch-phrases  everywhere,"  Edward 
put  in,  "  only  I  suppose  American  women  have 
greater  command  of  them,  because  of  their  greater 
energy.  And  you  notice  them  as  catch-phrases  sim- 
ply because  they're  not  the  phrases  you're  used 
to." 

"  Besides,"  Welsh  remarked,  "  I  rather  like  that 
intense  preoccupation  with  meaningless  speech.  Any- 
thing is  better  than  that  cursed  vanity  of  the  Eng- 
lishwoman who  is  always  afraid  of  giving  herself 
away.  How  inelastic  she  is,  how  supine  1  And, 
really,  believe  me,  much  more  banal  than  the  Ameri- 
can. If  we  must  have  banalities  let  them  at  least  be 
unrestricted. —  And  then  our  English  snobbishness, 
invented  by  women,  kept  up  religiously  by  women, 


rhe  Buffoon  79 


never  to  be  escaped  from  anywhere !  Ah,  yes,  they 
have  their  revenge." 

"  But  our  men  support  them  well,"  said  Edward, 
*'  so  far  as  snobbishness  goes." 

"  I  suppose  they  do.  Good  Lord !  "  Welsh  swept 
on,  rapidly,  eagerly.  "  The  English  are  an  unpar- 
donable race !  It's  only  by  being  on  an  island  that 
they  aren't  shamed  and  swamped  out  of  the  world! 
Look  at  the  great  middle  class,  the  representative 
class.  What  are  they  doing?  What  are  they 
after?  What  do  they  want?"  He  was  uncon- 
sciously taking  on  his  lecturing  manner;  he  made 
frequent  gestures.  Edward  was  surprised  by  their 
grace  and  force.  "  The  whole  and  single-hearted 
devotion  of  every  family  —  above  the  actual  poor 

—  within  five  miles  of  where  I  live,  is  to  score  off 
every  other  family  by  advancing  —  oh,  by  the  width 
of  your  finger-nail  —  on  the  social  staircase,  i 
should  like  to  establish  by  force,  say,  three  classes 

—  each  with  its  proper  uniform  —  divide  the  whole 
lot,  arbitrarily  and  once  for  all.  It's  worst  of  all  in 
the  country  if  you're  not  a  complete  stranger  stop- 
ping at  an  inn.  This  awful  business  of  every  one 
knowing  every  one  else  —  it  resolves  itself  into  an 
orgy  of  servility  and  spite,  and  it  makes  you  afraid 
of  putting  your  foot  outside  your  door.  By 
heaven!  " 

Edward,  impressed,  looked  at  the  speaker.  A 
spirit  of  force,  of  life,  seemed  suddenly  to  have 
snatched  Welsh :  he  was  literally  transfigured.     His 


80  The  Buffoon 

face  had  gained  strength  astonishingly,  it  had  lost  its 
incompleteness  and  its  lack  of  harmony. 

"  The  thing  strikes  me,"  he  went  on,  "  as  per- 
fectly amazing.  America!  There  is  nothing  in 
America  to  compare  with  it.  And  they  do  it  so 
badly  and  so  blunderingly,  these  people.  They 
can't  even  manage  their  own  little  games.  Really 
and  truly,  our  class  —  this  upper  middle  class  of 
England,  this  class  of  pseudo  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
is  the  most  dilapidated  and  wretched  social  phe- 
nomenon ever  produced  in  the  world!  They  give 
you  a  sense  of  shame  —  of  shame  —  so  poignant 
that  it  positively  sickens !  Any  revolution  —  any  — 
any  —  which  would  dash  out  and  scatter  forever 
these  detestable  little  circles  —  it  would  be  like  a 
second  Incarnation.  I  tell  you,  I  grow  sick  for 
America  sometimes  —  for  any  other  country.  I 
want  some  one  to  talk  to  —  a  coloured  Pullman  por- 
ter, a  Bowery  '  crook,'  a  Western  '  drummer,'  a  New 
York  '  gun-man,'  a  Chicago  '  vaudeville  '  artiste,  a 
Pennsylvania  miner,  an  Italian  immigrant,  a  French 
procuress,  a  Russian  spy!  I  long  to  exchange  ideas 
with  some  sort  of  a  natural  animal.  These  English 
— '  they  are  neither  beast  nor  human,  man  nor 
woman  ' —  they  are  not  even  eldola  or  lemures  — 
they  are  simply  Our  Class  —  at  Home." 

Edward  restrained  a  desire  to  applaud.  Tryers 
was  moody  and  irritable  from  his  brother-in-law's 
eloquence. 

"  He    always    exaggerates    absurdly,"    he    com- 


The  Buffoon  81 

mented.  "  Don't  you  think  that's  a  mistake, 
Raynes?     One  can't  carry  an  argument  that  way." 

"  Lord  love  you,"  Edward  replied.  "  Mr.  Welsh 
doesn't  want  to  carry  an  argument.  He  wants  to 
set  up  an  impression.  And  one  can't  exaggerate 
about  English  snobbery.  Only  it  isn't  peculiar  to 
our  class.  You  only  think  that  because  you  know 
your  own  class  better  than  any  other.  Snobbishness 
in  other  classes  takes  a  different  form  and  you  don't 
recognise  it." 

"  But  surely  the  poor  aren't  snobs,"  Welsh  re- 
monstrated. 

"  The  poor  again !  I  must  introduce  you  to  my 
housekeeper.  She's  not  of  the  peasant  class  her- 
self, but  her  mother  was.  Her  father  was  a  trades- 
man who  married  beneath  him.  She  knows  a  great 
deal  about  the  peasantry,  at  first  hand,  and  she  is  not 
tolerant  of  them.  No  more  tolerant  than  you  are 
of  your  class,  give  you  my  word." 

"  But," —  Welsh  was  still  remonstrant  — "  it  can't 
be  the  same,  surely.  Their  lives  must  be  more  nat- 
ural." 

"  Of  course  it's  not  the  same.  Or  rather  it's  the 
same  with  a  difference  —  an  accidental  difference. 
Every  peasant  family  is  bent  on  showing  that  it's 
superior  to  every  other.  Only  they  don't  use  mid- 
dle-class methods.  They  throw  out  perfectly  good 
food  on  the  refuse  heap  when  their  children  are  go- 
ing hungry,  to  show  that  they're  better  off  than  their 
neighbours.     For  a  change  that  method's  no  doubt 


82  The  Buffoon, 

less  aggravating  than  the  ones  we're  used  to.  But 
it's  quite  equally  aggravating  when  you're  familiar 
with  it,  especially  when  the  hungry  children  are  your 
nephews  and  nieces.  My  sympathies  are  with  my 
housekeeper." 

"  Good  Lord !  I'd  no  idea  they  did  things  like 
that."  Welsh  was  a  little  baffled.  "  Still,  it  isn't 
really  so  bad.  And  I  don't  object  to  waste.  The 
spilt  wine,  the  crushed  flower.  There's  a  certain 
picturesqueness,  a  certain  courage  — " 

"  Not  at  all.  There  Is  nothing  but  mean  vanity 
and  petty  pretentiousness.  Your  middle-class  snob 
is  equally  courageous.  He  gives  up  heaps  of  things 
which  he  misses  as  much  as  the  poor  miss  food,  in  or- 
der to  make  a  show." 

"  But  look  at  their  faces,"  cried  Welsh,  "  the  faces 
of  the  workers  and  the  faces  of  our  lot.  You  must 
see  that  the  masses  are  the  more  human  — " 

"  Oh,  get  along  with  you,"  Edward  laughed,  "  you 
and  your  Idealism.  Been  surveying  the  rustic  types 
In  the  Royal  Academy?  " 

"  And  then,"  Welsh  went  on  with  renewal  ot 
spirit,  "  the  peasants  have  something  to  do.  The 
men  till  the  soil,  the  women  have  all  their  time  filled 
with  their  house-work  and  their  babies.  They 
haven't  the  same  leisure  for  snobbery." 

"  Both  the  men  and  the  women  arc  drugged  with 
work  till  they're  stupid.  But  they're  just  as  much 
snobs  as  if  they  were  idle,  and  they're  harder  to 
cure." 


The  Buffoon  83 

Welsh's  energy  seemed  to  forsake  him.  He  was 
evidently  soon  bored  by  argument.  "  But  I  can't 
believe  it,"  he  murmured.  "  I  simply  can't  believe 
it." 

"  Then  the  aristocrats,"  Edward  resumed, 
"  they're  just  as  snobbish  in  their  way  as  we 
are. 

Tryers'  attention  quickened  at  the  mention  of 
the  aristocracy.  The  devotion  of  generations  to 
the  landed  gentry  ran  in  his  blood,  and  he  had 
very  definite  ideas  about  "  a  gentleman's  hall- 
marks." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  agree  with  you  there,  Raynes,"  he 
said.  "  Whenever  I've  had  to  deal  with  a  genuine 
aristocrat,  I've  found  him  quite  different.  That's 
the  mark  of  a  really  well-born  man,  that  he  isn't  con- 
scious of  his  birth.  Why,  he's  no  need  to  think  of 
the  social  ladder  and  all  that.  He's  on  the  top,  and 
every  one  knows  it.  That's  the  secret  of  the  good 
manners  of  the  aristocracy;  they're  never  afraid  of 
being  in  a  false  position." 

"  Yes,  that's  what  people  think,"  replied  Edward. 
"  But  aristocratic  snobbishness  is  simply  a  different 
variety.  They  aren't  always  pretending  to  belong 
to  the  class  above  them,  simply  because  there  isn't  a 
class  above  them.  But  they  are  conscious  of  their 
birth,  inordinately  conscious.  They  don't  show  that 
they  are,  they're  trained  not  to,  because  bragging 
about  one's  family  became  a  middle-class  fashion, 
and  the  aristocracy  always  drops  middle-class  fash- 


84  The  Buffoon 

ions.  There  is  really,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it, 
a  subtle  snobbishness  in  not  bragging  about  one's 
birth." 

"  Oh,  I  say,  Raynes,"  Tryers  exclaimed,  just  like 
George,  "  that's  mere  sophistry !  " 

"  They  used  to  brag  in  the  eighteenth  century,  and 
they  brag  now,  inside.  They  brag  among  them- 
selves under  the  secure  shadows  of  the  family  por- 
traits. The  young  of  their  kind  haven't  always 
learnt  discretion,  they  sometimes  brag  openly.  I 
was  disillusioned  about  the  aristocracy  at  my  public 
school.  There  were  several  of  them  there,  and  they 
were  ingrained  snobs,  nearly  all  of  them;  snobs  on 
fixed  principle.  The  only  aristocrat  I  ever  knew 
well  later  on  was  the  younger  son  of  a  marquess,  and 
after  awhile  he  fairly  launched  out  on  the  subject  of 
his  family  tree.  Being  well-born  is  a  very  impor- 
tant thing  to  them,  Tryers,  I  assure  you,  and  they 
like  the  world  to  know  all  about  it.  As  you  say,  if 
they're  actually  titled  or  if  for  some  other  reason 
they're  saved  the  trouble  of  advertising,  they  needn't 
and  they  don't  advertise.  But  when  advertisement 
happens  to  be  necessary,  they'll  manage  it  some- 
how, you  can  bet  your  boots." 

"  But  that's  all  quite  different,"  Tryers  rejoined 
impatiently,  "  that  isn't  the  kind  of  snobbishness  we 
were  talking  about." 

"  What's  the  difference  between  wanting  people 
to  know  that  you're  in  a  direct  male  line  from  the 
Conquest   and   wanting   them   to   know   that   your 


The  Buffoon  85 


mother's  aunt  married  an  '  Honourable  '  ?  What's 
the  difference  between  wanting  to  get  into  the  Court 
Set  and  w^anting  to  be  asked  to  dinner  by  the  Lord 
of  the  Manor  ?  The  essence  of  snobbishness  is  waste 
of  energy  over  social  distinction.  Energy  that 
might  be  used  in  a  nicer  way  than  for  feeding  several 
kinds  of  mean  vices,  starving  the  pleasant  virtues, 
making  some  people  pitiably  unhappy  and  discon- 
tented and  others  pitiably  satisfied  and  smug.  No, 
one  can't  let  off  the  aristocracy." 

*'  Admirable!  "  Welsh  was  relieved  to  find  him- 
self again  in  agreement.  "  I'm  delighted  to  hear 
it." 

"  No  doubt,"  continued  Edward,  "  the  aristocrats 
'  manage  their  little  games  '  better  than  the  middle- 
classes.  They  ought  to.  They've  had  longer  and 
more  careful  training;  it's  definitely  marked  out  as 
their  line  of  business.  They  are  professionals,  our 
people  are  amateurs." 

"  Well,  that's  something,"  said  Tryers  resolutely. 
"  If  it  has  to  be  done,  let  it  be  well  done.  At  any 
rate,  the  aristocrats  have  art." 

"  Yes,  but  they're  losing  it,  especially  in  Eng- 
land—" 

"  They  are,  they  are !  "  Welsh  broke  in.  "  O,  for 
the  air  of  a  French  marquis  —  the  port  of  a  Spanish 
don  —  the  grace  of  an  Italian  contessaf  How  they 
would  put  all  our  ridiculous  duchesses  to  shame ! 
England  is  preposterous !  "  He  made  a  gesture,  ex- 
pelling his  country  from  himself. 


86  The  Buffoon 

"  Other  countries  have  real  class  barriers,"  said 
Edward.  "  That  makes  a  difference.  I  don't  know 
how  it  works  —  whether  on  the  whole  things  are 
more  tolerable.  I  expect,  though,  you'd  find  a  lot 
that  wouldn't  please  you,  Welsh,  if  you  were  a 
Frenchman  or  an  Italian.     One  can't  ever  tell." 

"  You  bring  us  all  to  silence."  Welsh  evaded  by 
flattery.  "  You  carry  the  bearing-rein,  and  no  mis- 
take.    You  are  a  master." 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  replied  Edward,  "  what  you  arc. 
You  are  a  flatterer.  That  makes  the  seventh  or 
eighth  time  that  you  have  called  me  a  master  to-day. 
And  the  psychology  of  your  flattery  would  be  rather 
interesting,  if  one  could  get  at  it.  You  don't  do  it 
out  of  irony.     That  wouldn't  be  like  you." 

"  He  flatters  because  he  is  an  ingrained  craven," 
said  Tryers  with  emphasis. 

"  I  don't  flatter."  Welsh  was  bewildered.  "  I 
really  do  think  that  you  are  a  master." 

"  Why  of  course  you  do,"  Edward  chuckled. 
"That's  your  way.  You  heighten  the  character  — 
abilities  and  vices  —  of  every  one  you  meet,  because 
that  makes  it  more  interesting  and  sensational  for 
you.  So  you're  always  moving  among  remarkable 
men :  the  plan  plays  magnificently  into  the  hands  of 
your  egoism.     It  works  all  round." 

"  Well,  but  — "  Welsh  was  still  puzzled  " —  wc 
are  remarkable  people,  aren't  we?  How  fright- 
fully dull  it  would  be  if  we  weren't!  " 

Edward  chuckled  again.     "  Upon  my  word,"  he 


The  Buffoon  87 

declared,  "  there's  something  to  be  said  for  your 
method,  especially  If  you've  really  succeeded  In  con- 
vincing yourself.  But  don't  you  make  all  your 
friends  fearfully  vain?" 

"  I  don't  mind  my  friends  being  vain,"  replied  the 
other,  as  though  that  settled  the  question. 

"  You're  the  most  beautiful  and  complete  egoist 
I've  ever  met."  Edward  was  more  and  more  de- 
lighted. "  And  I'm  beginning  to  agree  entirely  with 
our  friend  that  your  Influence  Is  dangerous.  But  not 
in  the  way  you  think,  Tryers.  What  Welsh  does  — 
so  I  imagine  —  is  to  take  the  people  he  meets  and  fix 
their  types  at  once  —  making  them  much  more  types 
than  they  really  are,  and  heightened,  as  I've  said.  In- 
conceivably at  all  points.  At  the  same  time  he  gives 
them  a  huge  conceit  In  being  what  he  makes  them  out 
to  be,  and  there  they  are,  there  they  rest.  What- 
ever they  do  or  say,  Welsh  will  make  it  fit  in  with 
his  idea  of  them  and  clap  them  on  the  back.  He'll 
infect  them,  if  he  can,  with  his  paralytic  microbes  — 
and  all  because  It  pleases  him,  because  It's  what  he 
wants.  He  hates  effort,  so  he  surrounds  himself 
with  atrophied  friends.  Oh,  his  influence  Is  per- 
fectly poisonous !  " 

Welsh  was  Immensely  pleased,  and  responded  by 
curious  inarticulate  sounds  of  excitement  and  grati- 
fication. 

*'  Yes,"  cried  Tryers,  dexterously  running  in  on 
Edward's  lead,  "  Raynes  is  quite  right.  You're  in- 
capable of  judging  people  —  you  know  nothing  about 


88  The  Buffoon 

character.  You  twist  everything  to  suit  your  mor- 
bid ideas.  Then  you  think  you've  had  an  influence. 
You're  a  fool!  A  buffoon!"  Tryers  energetically 
proclaimed.     "  He's  a  buffoon!  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Edward,  "  he  isn't.  That's  where 
you  make  a  mistake."  He  was  arrested  by  a  dis- 
quieting thought  which  he  immediately  banished. 
They  were  now  at  the  gate  of  his  little  drive.  Ed- 
ward began  to  prepare  his  mind  for  dinner. 


CHAPTER  Fill 

TRYERS  was  not  quite  sure  whether  Edward 
was  really  going  to  make  him  sleep  at  the 
Inn.  He  hoped  not,  but  it  was,  to  use  a 
phrase  which  was  often  in  Welsh's  mouth,  a  phrase 
pronounced  with  all  the  young  vigour  of  a  thing  in 
early  flush,  a  "  hope  against  hope."  These  urbane 
decisions  of  Edward's,  as  Tryers  knew,  were  pecul- 
iarly stable,  and  as  the  evening  wore  on  it  became 
more  and  more  apparent  to  the  disconsolate  archi- 
tect that  he  might  just  as  well  have  reconciled  him- 
self and  ordered  his  room  at  once  at  the  Wolcote 
Arms.  Yet  perhaps  —  if  only  Raynes  would  drink 
a  little  more  Port,  if  only  he  would  drift  in  his  imper- 
ceptible way  towards  an  indulgent  mood  —  but 
nothing  came  of  these  expectations.  Edward  had 
no  taste  for  taking  too  much  to  drink :  mornings  were 
as  much  to  him  as  evenings. 

So  they  sat  together  after  dinner,  and  Tryers 
talked  angrily  about  his  soul,  as  one  might  talk  about 
an  ill-trained  puppy  who  is  always  giving  no  end  of 
trouble:  Welsh  talked  of  the  Catholic  Modernist 
Movement,  for  which  he  was  just  then  fervent. 
Protestantism,  he  said,  was  so  harsh  and  so  stub- 
born,   striking   everywhere   discordantly,    disagree- 

89 


90  The  Buffoon 

able  to  oneself  and  to  all  one's  friends.  It  must  be 
weakened,  and  if  you  strengthened  Catholicism  by 
reinforcing  it  as  the  Modernists  wished,  Catholicism 
would  pulverise  all  these  irritating  little  individualist 
sects  in  no  time.  Then,  Welsh  explained,  we  shall 
all  of  us  be  able  to  live  freely,  for  the  Catholics  al- 
ways let  you  live  as  you  like,  provided  you're  on  their 
side.  Only  the  few  —  the  inner  circle  of  Cath- 
olics —  must  be  allowed  latitude  of  belief,  they  must 
keep  it  to  themselves,  of  course,  they  must  cultivate 
an  "  ironical  submission  "  to  all  dogmas;  they  must 
frequent  all  rites  with  exquisite  scrupulousness,  out- 
wardly they  must  support  unity  with  never  a  lapse, 
they  must  accept  everything,  and,  "  well,  between 
ourselves,  my  friends,"  Welsh  had  concluded,  "  they 
really  needn't  believe  anything.  The  Catholic  idea, 
that  is  first  and  last  and  all." 

Edward  attended  to  all  this,  for  he  was  interested 
in  any  further  revelation  of  Welsh's  fantastic  mind. 
The  man  was  more  remote  from  the  facts  of  life 
than  any  one  he  had  met:  and  he  was  almost  equally 
remote  from  ideas.  Every  idea  had,  it  seemed,  to 
be  reduced  to  a  kind  of  embryo  of  itself  in  his  brain, 
and  then  it  shot  up  and  round  and  about  into  alto- 
gether incalculable  and  capricious  shapes.  Edward 
wondered  what  the  Abbe  Loisy  or  Father  Tyrrell 
would  have  made  of  this  Modernism  that  Welsh  ex- 
pounded. And  how  guileless  and  naive  was  this  way 
he  had,  of  launching  his  ideas  into  free  air  to  wing 
their  course,  all  obstacles  of  the  common  earth  re- 


The  Buffoon  91 

moved!  Once  or  twice  Edward  reminded  him  of 
other  factors  that  would  come  in,  factors  that  might 
affect  this  Catholic  regeneration,  this  annihilation  of 
the  Protestant.  Welsh  looked  rather  troubled  for 
a  moment,  said  "  Ah,  yes,  there  is  that,"  and  then 
forgot  all  about  it.  He  resumed  his  eloquence. 
Certainly  he  spoke  well.  He  had  command,  he  had 
vividness  and  richness  of  imagery,  a  striking  faculty 
for  rhetorical  invective  and  rhetorical  panegyric. 
At  the  same  time  phrases  of  the  "  hoping  against 
hope  "  sort  were  continually  with  him,  and  he  gave 
them  the  same  luxurious  garnish  as  others  that  es- 
caped triteness.  All  that  he  said  was  tremendously 
helped  on,  given  double  and  treble  value,  by  expres- 
sion of  face  and  pitch  of  voice.  He  could  carry 
off  flagrant  banalities,  lunatic  assertions,  inept  specu- 
lations. Edward  reflected  that  he  was  born  for  the 
stage. 

Meanwhile  Tryers  did  all  he  could  to  divert  every 
subject  to  his  own  spiritual  state:  he  was  always 
wanting  to  strike  topics  off  to  his  soul,  just  as  some 
batsmen  always  want  to  strike  the  balls  off  to  leg. 

"  But  that  wouldn't  help  me,"  he  said  when  Welsh 
talked  of  his  Catholic  Idea:  and  again,  when  Ed- 
ward had  led  Welsh  on  to  say  more  about  America, 
"  Ah,  yes,"  Tryers  had  broken  in,  *'  I  think,  some- 
how, that  in  a  new  country  there  would  be  fewer 
temptations." 

No  word  was  spoken  of  little  Norah;  but  towards 
eleven  o'clock  Tryers,  who  had  grown  more  and 


92  The  Buffoon 

more  silent,  got  up  and  said  he  would  go  to  the  Inn. 
He  was  tired  and  would  like  to  be  in  bed  early. 
"And  to  get  up  early?"  lightly  rejoined  Edward. 
Tryers  winced.  "  Of  course  you  are  my  guest  at 
the  Inn,"  Edward  added  as  he  showed  him  out. 
This  made  the  architect  a  little  happier. 

When  Edward  returned  to  the  room  he  found  that 
Welsh  had  fallen  into  a  profound  sleep  during  what 
must  have  been  rather  less  than  a  minute.  The 
achievement  was  impressive  in  itself,  but  Edward  was 
not  altogether  pleased  with  the  result.  The  sleeper 
looked  his  very  worst.  His  jaw  had  dropped  like  a 
dead  man's :  it  struck  Edward  that  a  phrase  used  that 
evening  by  Welsh  —  one  of  his  better  phrases  — 
"the  cunning  of  a  corpse" — was  applicable  now. 
Edward  stood  and  looked  at  him,  and  as  he  looked 
he  liked  that  dropped  jaw  less  and  less.  Welsh's 
teeth  were  bad;  two  or  three  of  them,  like  his 
trouser-buttons,  were  missing,  and  one  had  been 
capped  prominently  with  gold,  obviously  by  an 
American  dentist.  Gold  that  showed  in  the  mouth 
was  abhorrent  to  Edward.  He  must,  he  felt,  change 
the  appearance  of  the  face:  he  could  not  have  it 
there  like  that.  He  went  out  into  the  dining-room 
and  collected  several  apples  of  different  sizes;  then 
he  came  back  and  stood  with  the  apples  in  his  hands, 
surveying  Welsh  and  gauging  the  distance  between 
the  chest  and  the  place  where  the  chin  would  come  if 
the  mouth  were  shut.  Welsh's  head  was  bent  down 
a  httle  as  he  sat.     It  might  be  necessary  to  bend  it 


rhe  Buffoon  93 


down  a  little  more.  Edward  took  the  largest  apple 
and  went  over  to  the  sleeper.  He  raised  the  chin, 
placed  the  apple  underneath  it,  and  with  his  other 
hand  gently  and  slowly  pushed  the  head  further 
down,  so  that  the  apple  was  secured  between  chin  and 
chest,  and  Welsh's  mouth  kept  shut.  It  was  all  done 
remarkably  adroitly  and  delicately.  The  apple 
stayed  in  position,  and  Welsh  did  not  move  nor  make 
any  sound.     He  might  have  been  drugged. 

Edward,  satisfied,  turned  from  him  and  sat  down 
in  an  armchair  by  his  bureau  to  write  two  or  three 
letters  that  had  been  crowded  out  by  the  occupations 
of  the  day.  He  always  wrote  in  an  armchair,  with 
his  paper  on  a  light  wooden  board  that  rested  almost 
perpendicularly  against  one  raised  knee.  Of  course 
he  used  a  fountain-pen,  that,  being  his,  was  always 
in  perfect  order  and  had  not  needed  any  repair  since 
it  was  bought  ten  years  before.  No  man  in  the 
United  Kingdom  managed  the  act  of  tracing  ink  into 
words  on  paper  with  greater  ease  than  Edward.  He 
never  bent  his  head  uncomfortably,  and  his  paper 
rested  nearly  level  with  his  eyes. 

As  he  prepared  for  his  letter,  Edward  wondered 
why  most  people  were  content  to  write  at  desks  and 
tables,  sitting  on  horrid  little  chairs,  with  vision 
stooped  to  paper  on  a  flat  surface  below  them.  He 
concluded  that  habit  and  want  of  reflection  must  ac- 
count for  it.  People  were  always  making  themselves 
uncomfortable  from  habit.  This  perpetuation  all 
round  of  inconvenient  ways,  how  astonishingly  stupid 


94  The  Buffoon 

it  was !  Putting  eggs  in  boiling  water  that  goes  on 
boiling  and  hardens  the  white,  —  using  pencils  that 
have  to  be  sharpened  —  it  was  that  kind  of  stupidity 
that  Edward  thought  so  peculiarly  unnecessary  and 
absurd.  These  little  discomforts,  so  easily  avoided, 
what  could  induce  any  one  to  put  up  with  them  at 
this  time  of  day?  And  the  dull  obstinacy  people 
had  in  clinging  to  them!  They  would  babble 
about  reform  and  Acts  of  Parliament,  but  what  Act 
of  Parliament  ever  laid  a  finger  on  the  individual  life 
with  any  real  intimacy  of  touch?  It  would  make  no 
personal  difference  whatever,  for  instance,  to  George, 
if  Ireland  had  Home  Rule  or  if  the  Welsh  Church 
were  disestablished;  it  would  not  really  make  any  dif- 
ference worth  considering  if  he  had  to  pay  an  extra 
penny  or  two  Income  Tax,  but  it  certainly  would 
make  a  difference  to  him,  a  daily  difference,  if  he  left 
off  eating  eggs  that  had  been  relentlessly  boiled,  or  if 
he  took  to  using  a  pencil  with  a  stick  of  lead  that 
screwed  out.  Edward  drew  a  breath  and  took  his 
fountain-pen  from  his  waistcoat  pocket.  He  began 
his  letter.  Welsh  continued  to  sleep  as  though  he 
were  in  bed. 

Edward  was  writing  to  the  landlady  of  the  fur- 
nished rooms  that  he  always  took  in  Liverpool. 
They  were  near  the  Central  Station,  very  convenient: 
the  landlady  was  a  widow  in  the  thirties,  an  Austrian, 
with  whom  Edward  had  no  fault  to  find  except  that 
she  expected  him  to  make  love  to  her  and  was  disap- 
pointed because  he  didn't.     How  should  he  begin  the 


The  Buffoon  95 

letter?  "Dear  Madam"  or  even  "Dear  Mrs. 
Weiss"  wouldn't  do;  it  was  important  to  keep  on 
the  right  side  of  this  very  emotional  creature,  he  was 
sure  no  other  lodgings  in  Liverpool  would  suit  him 
so  well  as  hers.  But  he  really  couldn't  call  her  by 
her  Christian  name,  he  couldn't  bring  himself  to  that; 
it  seemed  somehow  to  compromise  his  personality; 
besides  he  couldn't  remember  her  Christian  name. 
"  Dear  Lady  "  he  thought  of,  but  that  sounded  an- 
noyingly  like  the  form  of  address  prevalent  in  third- 
rate  plays.  It  suggested  the  middle-aged  man-of- 
the-world  "  philosopher  "  parleying  with  the.  woman 
who  seems  dangerously  on  the  point  of  running 
away  from  her  husband,  but  of  course  in  the  end, 
after  the  interview  with  the  middle-aged  adviser, 
never  does.  "  My  friend  "  was  too  much  like  Jack 
Welsh:  he  couldn't  write  "My  friend"  after  that 
afternoon.  And  he  knew  that  Mrs.  Wciss's  sensi- 
tive feelings  would  be  seriously  hurt  if  he  were  to  be- 
gin the  letter  without  preliminary,  saying  straight 
away:  "  I  shall  be  in  Liverpool  on  the  27th,  and 
hope  you  will  be  able  to  arrange,  etc."  It  was  a 
problem. 

Edward  looked  round  the  room.  There  was 
Welsh,  sitting  just  as  he  had  left  him,  the  apple  still 
in  place.  His  mouth  had  come  a  little  open,  but 
it  wasn't  nearly  so  badly  open  as  before.  His  nos- 
trils closed  and  expanded  with  his  regular  breathing; 
his  abdomen,  too,  heaved  with  regularity,  with  en- 
gaging regularity.     Edward  looked  from  him  to  the 


96  The  Buffoon 


inanimate  objects  of  the  room.  There  they  were, 
all  of  them,  with  that  peculiar  patience  of  theirs,  a 
patience  inseparable  from  inanimate  and  familiar 
objects,  particularly  at  night,  when  the  lamp  is  lit, 
and  the  house  still.  They  all  looked  as  though  they 
would  wait  for  any  one  forever.  A  strange  thrill 
of  the  sense  of  eternity  passed  through  Edward.  "  I 
ought  to  be  looking  at  stars,  or  the  sea,  or  moun- 
tains," he  thought,  "  to  feel  like  this."  And  he  was 
only  looking  at  chairs,  and  a  table,  and  a  writing-desk 
at  which  he  never  wrote. 

"  I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  everlasting  writ- 
ing-desk," he  murmured.  But,  strangely  for  him, 
he  did  not  smile.  At  that  moment  he  was  serious: 
and  after  all  if  a  writing-desk  does  suggest  eternity, 
why  be  afraid  of  coupling  the  two,  and  why  be 
amused  when  you  have  done  it? 

"  I  write  to  you,  kindest  of  ladies,  to  say  that — " 
Yes,  that  would  do.  Rather  a  silly  sort  of  thing  to 
say,  of  course,  but  then  one  can't  have  everything, 
Mrs.  Weiss  would  like  that,  and  it  wouldn't  "  let 
him  in."  He  wrote  the  words,  and  had  finished  the 
letter  in  two  or  three  minutes. 

"  Ironical  gallantry  " —  he  felt  sure  that  Welsh 
would  employ  that  one  of  his  phrases  if  he  were  to 
see  the  letter.  It  was  a  phrase  that  he  had  used 
more  than  once  that  day:  all  his  phrases  were  subject 
to  repetition.  "  Well,"  mused  Edward,  "  I  suppose 
because  he  is  lazy  .  .  ."  But  "  ironical  gallantry  " 
certainly  did  give  an  idea  of  Edward's  relations  to 


rhe  Buffoon  97 

Mrs.  Weiss.  He  always  tried  to  make  her  think 
that  he  didn't  make  love  to  her  only  because  he  didn't 
quite  dare,  because  he  respected  her,  because  he  was 
afraid  to  trust  himself,  or  any  other  damn  nonsense 
that  these  women  would  swallow.  "  Kindest  of 
ladies."     Edward  made  a  face. 

He  wrote  two  more  letters,  with  equal  rapidity,  but 
without  premeditation.  One  to  his  bankers,  point- 
ing out  that  they  had  not  allowed  him  interest  on  his 
Deposit  Account,  another  to  a  Railway  Company 
claiming  a  refund  for  the  unused  portion  of  a  return- 
ticket.  When  the  letters  were  finished  Edward 
moistened  their  envelopes  with  water  that  he  always 
had  put  in  a  little  china  receptacle  on  his  desk.  He 
used  Post  Office  envelopes,  the  kind  that  is  ready- 
stamped. 

Having  put  the  letters  in  their  right  place,  ready 
for  posting  the  next  morning,  Edward  walked  over 
to  his  bookshelf,  softly,  so  as  not  to  wake  Welsh. 
He  would  rather  read  than  talk  just  then,  he  thought. 
He  shot  a  dubious  glance  at  the  apple,  but  the  apple 
admirably  remained.  What  book  should  he  take? 
He  had  had  a  surfeit  of  twentieth  century  writers 
lately,  he  wanted  to  read  some  one  who  wasn't  per- 
petually conscious  either  of  his  period  or  of  himself 
or  of  the  public  taste.  Consciousness  in  one  or  other 
of  these  directions  he  had  found  it  difficult  to  escape 
from  with  authors  of  the  present  day.  Some  of 
them  seemed  forever  trying  to  impress  him  that  they 
were  up-to-date,  that  they  spoke  with  the  latest  pps- 


98  The  Buffoon 


sible  speech,  others  seemed  to  write  because  they 
found  themselves  so  interesting  that  they  simply 
could  not  keep  a  good  thing  dark  any  longer,  others 
—  the  greater  number  —  wrote  evidently  to  pull  a 
good  thing  off  for  their  pockets.  He  felt  that  they 
gauged  the  public  after  the  manner  of  an  advertising 
agent,  that  they  compiled  auxiliary  note-books,  al- 
ways carried  about  with  them,  full  of  simple  rules, 
easily  remembered  and  helping  no  end  for  sales. 
But  Edward  was  inclined  to  prefer  this  sort  of  writer 
to  those  others  who  tip-toed  eternally  after  style,  re- 
minding him  of  clever  boys  who  want  to  win  scholar- 
ships. It  was  better,  after  all,  to  want  to  be  a  best 
seller  —  a  more  honest  and  a  more  wholesome  am- 
bition. Edward  felt  he  would  rather  have  a  repu- 
tation in  the  Circulating  Library  than  a  reputation 
in  the  literary  coteries.  The  best  sellers,  too,  irri- 
tated him  less  than  the  people  who  went  in  for  the 
contemporary  social  forces  "  stunt."  That  kind  of 
preoccupation  seemed  peculiarly  fatal  to  their  sense 
of  proportion,  peculiarly  fatal  to  Edward's  pleasure. 
No,  he  did  not  want  to  read  modern  writers  to-night: 
he  did  not  want  to  be  annoyed  by  feminist  problems, 
by  catch-penny  tricks  of  plot  and  situation,  or  by  af- 
fectations of  speech  such  as  "  lacklove  "  and  "  per- 
durable "  and  "  emprise,"  "  her  whom  he  thus  hap- 
pened on,"  and  other  such  forced  darling  flowers  so 
profusely  scattered  in  certain  darling  little  novels. 
Edward  remembered  a  word  of  four  letters,  current 


The  Buffoon  99 

chiefly  in  boys'  schools,  exactly  descriptive  of  people 
who  wrote  like  this. 

There  was  Dostoevsky  —  he  might  read  him  to- 
night. "  The  Idiot  " —  he  had  never  finished  that. 
No  doubt  that  Dostoevsky  was  remarkable;  but  why 
did  he  always  write  such  very  long  books,  and  why 
were  there  always  so  very  many  people  in  them? 
Edward  felt  that  he  really  could  not  tackle  those  teas- 
ing names  to-night.  When  he  thought  of  Dostoev- 
sky he  found  himself  longing  for  a  novel  in  which 
there  were  no  names :  sometimes  in  reading  Dostoev- 
sky he  had  longed  for  a  world  in  which  there  were  no 
names.  No,  it  was  too  exhausting,  this  coping  with 
so  egregious  a  multiplicity  of  incidents  and  personali- 
ties. Tiresome  that  it  should  be  so,  for  Edward 
knew  that  Dostoevsky  was  a  genius.  Still,  Turgenev 
was  the  man  for  him  and  always  would  be. 
Turgenev  condensed:  he  had  that  "economy  of 
material  "  so  pleasing  to  Edward  in  whatever  form. 
He  would  read  Turgenev  to-night,  or  perhaps  de 
Maupassant. 

As  he  was  reaching  for  a  possible  volume  his  eyes 
fell  on  a  very  recent  work,  by  a  writer  very  much 
of  the  present  day.  Edward  paused.  This  new 
author  was  a  curious  and  rather  notable  freak:  he 
had  a  mania  for  what  he  called  great,  simple,  and  ele- 
mental things;  they  were  the  eternal  heritage  of  hu- 
manity, and  he  thought  that  this  eternal  heritage  was 
now  in  danger  of  being  lost,  and  that  it  was  "  up  to  " 


100  The  Buffoon 

him  to  advertise  it  thoroughly,  so  that  the  world 
should  know  what  it  was  losing.  Advertise  it  he  cer- 
tainly did,  and  thoroughly :  he  bawled  simple  and  ele- 
mental things  in  a  Fleet-street  voice,  and  he  bawled 
loudest  when  he  was  showing  off  such  eternal  in- 
stinctive human  tendencies  as  the  tendency  to  get 
drunk  or  the  tendency  to  go  to  church.  He  called 
himself  a  democrat,  on  the  ground,  presumably,  that 
the  masses  were  superstitious  and  liked  beer,  and  he 
approved  of  their  being  superstitious  and  liking  beer. 
He  preached  a  happiness  of  very  visible  signs,  a  hap- 
piness displaying  itself  in  adipose  jollities,  bulbous 
laughters,  Christmas  appetites,  hearths  and  homes  so 
redolent  of  family  affections  that  the  sensitive  nose 
may  track  them  out  from  miles  away,  and  a  Chris- 
tianity relieving  the  sometimes  too  monotonous  gross- 
ness  of  these  delights  by  a  comfortable  pretence  at 
mysticism  and  an  introduction  of  a  vague  idea  of  the 
"  eternal  verities  "  at  appropriate  seasons.  He  was 
inordinately  respectable  at  bottom,  this  writer,  with 
an  inborn  awe  of  the  decencies  of  the  average  jury- 
man :  only  he  was  more  decent  than  the  average  jury- 
man. Edward  felt  as  he  read  him  that  he  could 
stand  these  mild  buttery  or  lardy  indulgences,  these 
smug  meaty  comforts,  these  shallow  obstinate  religi- 
osities,  these  little  villa-bred  virtues,  as  they  really 
were,  or  as  the  honest  Dickens  set  them  forth :  it  was 
only  when  they  took  the  form  of  a  proclaimed  cult 
that  they  became  offensive.  To  have  them  shouted 
at  you  and  distorted  —  really  quite  morbidly  —  by 


rhe  Buffoon  101 

laborious  methods  of  advertisement,  it  was  this  that 
was  intolerable.  This  new  seer  had  all  sorts  of 
tricks,  chiefly  acrobatic,  to  attract  attention.  He 
was  regarded  by  some  as  a  master  of  brilliant  para- 
dox. "  A  spittoon,"  he  would  write,  "  is  just  as 
much  in  the  heart  af  the  Universe  as  the  Milky 
Way;  "  thus,  you  see,  expounding  the  divinity  of  com- 
mon things.  He  would  take  two  words  conveying 
two  incongruous  ideas  — "  angels  "  and  "  pint-pots," 
for  example  —  and  clap  them  together  like  a  Salva- 
tion Army  instrument.  In  this  way  he  had  gained  an 
enormous  reputation  for  originahty;  young  men  and 
women  in  the  literary  circles  read  him  and  talked 
about  him  perpetually,  he  was  quite  a  lion  with  them. 
Anglicans  and  reactionaries  counted  him  as  a  force 
on  their  side;  they  bought  him  and  drew  his  name 
into  general  conversation.  The  average  juryman 
did  not  read  his  books  at  all,  and  if  he  happened  to 
dip  into  one  unawares  he  thought  it  utter  nonsense. 
The  worst  of  it  was  that  no  one  could  help  dipping 
into  this  author  now  and  again.  He  wrote  perpet- 
ually, for  his  tricks  were  easily  repeated,  and  he 
wrote  everywhere  —  in  daily  papers,  in  weeklies,  in 
quarterlies :  he  published  two  or  three  novels  or  vol- 
umes of  Essays  every  year,  the  bookstalls  were 
strewn  with  him.  There  was  no  escape.  One  ad- 
mitted that  he  knew  how  to  get  on. 

Edward  turned  the  pages  of  the  book,  he  too  took 
one  of  those  inevitable  "  dips."  He  could  under- 
stand the  man's  influence,  only  it  was  such  an  unpleas- 


102  The  Buffoon 

ant  Influence.  A  minute  ago,  and  for  many  minutes 
before  that,  there  had  been  a  hush  in  the  air,  hang- 
ing like  some  living  breath,  like  some  diffused  soul 
or  emana'tlon  of  a  soul  not  individual.  Edward's 
thoughts  had  seemed  to  come  to  him  from  a  distance, 
automatically:  tiny  unimportant  things  they  had 
seemed,  as  tiny  and  unimportant  as  birds  hopping 
here  and  there  over  buttresses  silent  and  immense. 
Now  the  hush  lifted,  the  hanging  breath  melted, 
caught  back  suddenly,  one  might  think,  to  some 
region  beyond  and  profound:  all  the  magic  of  the 
hour  was  gone,  a  single  phrase  of  this  book  had  dis- 
sipated it.  It  was  as  though  a  pantaloon  in  complete 
habit  had  dropped  through  the  ceiling;  dropped, 
jumped,  kicked,  somersaulted,  grimaced,  reeled  off 
his  patter,  string  upon  string.  "  Here  we  are 
again!"  Edward  was  resentful:  it  is  always  an- 
noying when  writers  whom  one  dislikes  show  talent 
enough  to  produce  an  Impression.  "  And  this  is  the 
modern  apostle  of  mysticism  and  religion,  the 
champion  of  the  fairies !  "  he  thought,  as  he  put  the 
book  back  on  the  shelves. 

His  eyes  rested  on  a  favourite  print  of  his,  a  print 
of  one  of  Benozzo  Gozzoll's  angels,  from  the  fres- 
coes of  the  Palazzo  RIccardi.  What  a  delicious 
ragamuffin  angel  it  was!  A  darling  little  female 
street-urchin  in  wings !  How  one  would  love  to  take 
her  up  and  touse  her  and  mouse  her,  pull  her  hair 
and  her  ears  and  rubble  her  cheeks  and  roll  her  over 
and  over!     How  ravishing  to  tumble  her  like  that 


The  Buffoon  103 

again  and  again  till  there  was  hardly  a  breath  left  in 
her  body!  Notions  of  this  kind  gave  Edward  the 
greatest  pleasure.  He  thought  of  the  Itahan  word 
for  a  young  girl — "  ragazza  " — "  ragazzina  " — 
*'  ragazzetta  " —  words  that  gave  him  pleasure  of 
the  same  sort.  They  suggested  an  amorous  rough- 
and-tumble  just  as  Gozzoli's  angel  did.  A  raga- 
muffin angel!  Was  that  at  all  like  those  incongru- 
ous combinations  that  he  had  been  deploring?  Of 
course  not:  the  conjunction  of  words  had  occurred 
naturally,  it  had  come  in  a  flash,  it  was  right,  alto- 
gether right,  perfectly  and  charmingly  right.  That 
ragamuffin  charm  was  heightened  most  captivatingly 
by  the  wings:  there  was  the  painter's  secret,  prompt- 
ing Edward's  phrase,  and  it  was  a  secret  the  painter 
had  won  from  Life,  he  hadn't  been  training  as  one 
trains  for  tricks.  The  deliciousness  of  this  angel 
was  both  familiar  and  strange :  it  had  the  same  kind 
of  breathless  startling  attraction  as  comes  from  a  girl 
who  is  like  a  boy  or  dressed  as  a  boy,  from  a  young 
witch,  from  a  woman's  voice  low-pitched,  from  ro- 
bust beauty  shaken  and  weakened  by  passion,  from 
loveliness  delicate  and  fastidious  but  by  some  chance 
dishevelled  —  yes,  it  was  like  all  these  alluring  com- 
binations of  opposed  impressions. 

Edward  remained  standing  by  the  bookcase,  and 
the  room  grew  still  again;  again  the  hush  gathered 
and  hung.  A  vague  impulse  came  on  him,  an  im- 
pulse to  express,  to  collect  and  preserve  somehow  the 
essence  of  what  he  really  was.     Some  sure  and  per- 


104  The  Buffoon 

manent  means  for  the  conveyance  of  his  sense  of  life, 
that  was  what  he  wanted  and  couldn't  get.  He  was 
sure  he  never  could  get  it.  If  he  sat  down  to  write, 
some  elf  would  light  at  once  on  the  edge  of  his  brain, 
some  cursed  gnome  or  other,  derisive,  mischievous, 
a  little  devil  that  would  sit  there  on  the  edge  and 
paddle  with  his  legs,  stirring  up  in  the  pool  of  mem- 
ories a  hundred  recollections  of  the  kinds  of  expres- 
sions that  belonged  to  other  men.  Edward's  own 
expression,  his  proper  heritage,  would  remain  an  un- 
discovered embryo,  a  ridiculous  egg  far  down  in  ob- 
scure weedy  depths,  while  the  surface  of  the  water 
was  crowded  with  splashing  changelings,  intercepting 
always,  evoked  without  fail  on  the  instant  by  this 
malevolent  gnome.  No,  Edward  made  up  his  mind 
that  he  would  not  humiliate  himself  again  by  trying 
to  write;  he  would  produce  no  dimmed  reflections  of 
Henry  James,  would  wake  no  forlorn  echoes  of 
Meredith  in  prose  or  Swinburne  in  verse.  He  would 
be  damned  if  he  was  going  to  trail  along  at  the  heels 
of  Turgenev  or  de  Maupassant.  He  came  near  to 
resentment  against  these  favourite  authors  of  his 
when  he  realised  how  inevitably  set  and  glued  to  the 
mould  of  one  or  the  other  of  them  he  became  when- 
ever he  tried  to  write.  They  had  robbed  him  of  his 
own,  that  was  what  they  had  done.  If  only  he  could 
have  written  something  that  resembled  them  all,  that 
wouldn't  be  so  bad,  that  would  be  new  and  might  be 
interesting,  but  it  was  always  one  or  the  other,  de- 
tached, that  caught  him  up  and  gripped  him  like  a 


The  Buffoon  105 

puppy,  in  mid  air,  with  his  own  feet, —  the  feet  that 
after  all  belonged  to  him, —  clear  off  the  ground. 
Well:  after  all,  he  could  liv^e,  he  could  put  himself 
into  his  life.  It  was  odd,  Edward  reflected,  that 
people  thought  him  lazy.  He  wasn't  lazy  at  all,  no 
one  could  manage  his  life  as  he  did,  so  thoroughly 
and  so  harmoniously,  without  definite  energy.  He 
was  conscious  of  abounding  energy,  energy  quite  as 
"  vital,"  to  use  a  favourite  word  of  George's,  as 
George's  own :  only  Edward  could  not  bring  himself 
to  waste  it,  as  George  did,  on  exhausting  trivialities 
that  led  nowhere,  or  silly  treadmill  exercises.  Ed- 
ward spent  all  his  vigour,  so  he  felt,  on  the  cultiva- 
tion of  his  existence  as  an  organism :  and  this  re- 
minded him  that  it  was  quite  contrary  to  his  code  to 
allow  himself  to  be  vexed  in  this  childish  way  because 
he  couldn't  write,  because  he  couldn't  get  hold  of 
that  confounded  egg  and  hatch  it.  And  after  all,  he 
might,  some  day.  Perhaps  what  he  needed  was  an 
influence;  perhaps  —  it  might  conceivably  be  —  if 
he  married  — 

The  dislodgment  and  fall  of  the  apple  from  under 
Welsh's  chin  broke  in  on  Edward's  meditations. 
Welsh  had  wakened:  he  was  one  of  those  who  are 
immediately  wide  awake  after  sleep. 

"  What  was  that?  "  he  said.  He  saw  the  apple, 
which  had  rolled  to  the  fender,  and  associated  it  with 
his  waking.  "An  apple?"  he  questioned  vaguely. 
"  Had  I  an  apple?     I  don't  think  I  will  eat  it  now." 

"  You  have  had  a  beautiful  sleep,"  remarked  Ed- 


106  The  Buffoon 

ward.  "  You  have  been  sleeping  for  nearly  two 
hours.     It  is  close  on  one  o'clock." 

"  Yes,  I  can  sleep  anywhere  —  anywhere." 
Welsh  spoke  with  a  touch  of  pride.  He  got  up  and 
went  over  to  Edward.  "  Let  me  look  at  your  books. 
Have  you  the  works  of  the  Marquis  de  Sade?  I  see 
you  read  Nietzsche.  Tom  Fielding  is  his  greatest 
disciple.  You  must  meet  Tom  Fielding  in  Liver- 
pool. I  will  bring  you  together.  He  is  like  Julius 
Caesar.  He  is  the  Juhus  Caesar  of  the  Cotton 
Markets  of  Liverpool.  He  is  master  of  an  amazing 
harem.  A  Casanova,  he  is  a  Casanova.  He  has 
an  extraordinary  control  over  women :  they  are  help- 
less in  his  hands.  They  have  no  secrets  from  him. 
He  is  unequalled.     A  lord  of  individualists." 

"You  tell  him  all  this,  I  suppose?"  Edward 
smiled. 

"  I  tell  my  friends  everything,  of  course.  But  it 
is  really  Important  that  you  two  should  encounter. 
You  are  like  Fielding  in  some  ways,  with  your  com- 
mand of  situations,  your  clear  and  cold  Intelligence, 
your  power  over  the  destinies  of  others.  You  are 
both  statesmen:  there  is  the  same  noble  aloofness, 
the  same  unscrupulousness,  the  same  relentlessness 
and  massiveness  of  purpose.  That  magnificent 
breadth  and  weight  of  forehead  that  you  have,  for 
example  —  yes,  you  must  meet.  You  must  feast  to- 
gether in  the  same  chamber  of  generous  pleasure  — 
you  must  —  What  Is  that  little  book?  Raoul  Root's 
poems  ?     Do  you  cultivate  that  ingenuous  American  ? 


The  Buffoon  107 

I  meet  him  sometimes,  but  his  circle  is  very  tiresome. 
You  would  put  them  all  to  shame.  They  don't  man- 
age their  poses  properly,  these  Americans  —  they 
are  too  serious.  One  has  always  the  sense  of  la- 
borious and  painful  guarding  against  lapses.  This 
Renaissance  Revival  —  these  Canzonetti  and  Ris- 
poste  —  no,  it's  not  to  my  taste.  But  there  are  some 
beautiful  girls  in  the  circle,  they  wear  Futurist 
dresses,  they  meet  together  in  subterranean  caves  in 
the  byways  of  London  and  dance  astonishing  Tan- 
goes." 

'*  Evidently  there  is  something  to  be  said  for  the 
Renaissance  cult." 

"  I'll  introduce  you."  Welsh's  face  lit  up. 
"  Come  back  to  London  with  me,  and  you  shall  meet 
the  Prophet.  And  you  shall  meet  the  Divinity  — 
you  shall  '  see  the  Goddess  go.'  When  she  walks 
she  doesn't  tread  the  ground.  Oh,  no  —  never, 
never!  " 

"What  is  her  name?" 

"  Eunice  Dinwiddie.  But  most  of  her  American 
friends  call  her  '  Eunus.'  It  is  a  great  grief  to  her 
when  it  happens.  And  really  it  is  an  intolerable 
thing  to  happen,  when  you  think  of  it.  You'll  real- 
ise that  when  you  see  her.  She  is  breaking  them  in, 
gradually,  to  pronouncing  her  name  in  three  sylla- 
bles.    But  it  takes  time." 

"  Is  she  good-looking?  " 

"  Yes.  Too  tall  for  my  taste,  but  I  have  no  fault 
to  find  with  her  figure.     She  droops  in  a  rather 


108  The  Buffoon 

marked  manner.  She  has  admirable  brown  hair  and 
brown  eyes  —  not  much  complexion,  but  you  don't 
expect  that  from  an  American.  Her  voice  is  care- 
fully low  and  soft  and  modulated.  She  has  taken 
infinite  pains  with  it,  and  she  really  can  make  it 
tremble  in  exactly  the  right  way  at  exactly  the  right 
moment." 

*'  I  should  like  to  meet  her."  Edward  rolled  his 
last  cigarette  of  the  day.  "  I  will  certainly  come  up 
with  you  to  London." 

"You  will,  you  will!"  Welsh  was  capable  of 
just  as  much  excitement  —  no  more  and  no  less  —  in 
the  small  hours  as  at  any  other  time.  "  I  shall  escort 
you.  Reggie  will  be  furious.  And  I  prophesy  — 
I  prophesy,  my  friend,  that  you  will  make  a  conquest. 
You  will  conquer  Raoul  Root's  circle.  You  will  con- 
quer the  Divinity.  You  are  born  to  set  your  heel 
wherever  you  will.  You  are  wise,  you  are  wicked, 
you  are  gay !  I  detect  in  you  both  Machiavel  and 
Aristophanes :  you  derive  from  Socrates  and  from 
Puck!  Yes,  yes,  come  with  me,  my  friend.  I  will 
guide  your  Caesarean  progress !  " 

Welsh  had  not  called  Edward  "  my  friend  "  be- 
fore, but  Edward  had  known  that  it  would  come,  and 
he  was  quite  prepared  for  its  coming,  when  it  did 
come,  twice.  The  man's  way  of  talking  was  absurd, 
Edward  reflected,  his  flattery  too  gross  and  grotesque 
to  deceive  a  peacock :  but  undeniably  he  could  carry 
it  off,  make  it  go.  Yes,  he  could  drag  in  a  round 
dozen  of  famous  names  in  a  sentence,  If  he  chose, 


riie  Buffoon  109 

and  the  thing  would  pass.  Well,  of  course,  Welsh 
was  an  orator.  He  was  an  orator  completely  and 
perfectly;  and  it  is  rare  enough  to  get  hold  of  any 
one  who  is  completely  and  perfectly  anything.  Ed- 
ward had  got  hold  of  Welsh,  and  he  did  not  mean 
to  let  hmi  go.  Nothing  so  unusual  should  be  lightly 
dropped.  And  Edward  was  beginning  to  recognise 
that  this  gross  flattery  did  after  all  affect  him  pleas- 
antly. He  liked  being  told,  in  Welsh's  way,  that  he 
was  this  and  that.  But  he  would  never  make  him- 
self ridiculous  by  believing  Welsh;  there  he  vowed 
he  would  be  firm. 

"  I  am  at  your  service,"  he  said,  "  either  for  con- 
quest or  defeat.  But  now  it's  late  and  I  want  to  go 
to  bed.     You  stay  of  course  as  long  as  you  like." 

Welsh  took  his  arm.  "  No,"  he  replied,  "  I  shall 
go  to  bed  too.  '  AUons,  enfants  de  la  patrie !  '  It 
will  be  a  campaign,"  he  shouted,  "  a  campaign!  '* 


CHAPTER  IX 

WHEN  Edward  came  down  the  next  morn- 
ing he  found  that  Welsh  had  been  up 
for  two  or  three  hours.  He  chided 
him  amicably  for  not  having  ordered  and  eaten 
breakfast,  but  his  guest  assured  him  that  he  was  ca- 
pable of  going  without  food  indefinitely  at  any  time, 
and  that  a  lonely  meal  was  misery  to  him.  So  the 
two  men  sat  down  together  at  about  ten  o'clock. 
Edward  was  soon  absorbed  in  a  fried  sole,  peeling 
delicately  the  brown  dry  skin  from  the  white  flesh. 
"What  do  you  think  of  vers  libres,  Welsh?"  he 
asked  suddenly. 

"  Oh,  you'll  hear  all  about  vers  libres  at  Raoul 
Root's  soirees.  Not  now:  don't  let's  talk  of  them 
now." 

They  were  silent  again.  Edward  had  expected 
Welsh  to  talk  a  great  deal,  he  wondered  why  he 
didn't.  Perhaps  it  was  a  sign  of  instinct,  perhaps 
Welsh  felt  that  his  host  had  not  the  humour  for  talk- 
ing at  breakfast.  After  replying  to  Edward's  ques- 
tion the  lecturer  went  on  with  his  bread-and-milk  and 
said  no  more.  It  occurred  to  Edward  that  he  would 
really  like  to  live  with  Welsh,  that  in  fact  Welsh  was 
the  only  person  he  had  ever  met  that  he  would  like  to 

live  with. 

no 


The  Buffoon  111 

Tryers  had  not  appeared.  Edward  was  a  little 
curious  about  him,  but  said  nothing  till  breakfast  was 
over.  Then  he  asked  Welsh  what  he  thought  had 
become  of  his  brother-in-law. 

"  He  may  be  at  church,"  Welsh  replied  gravely. 
"  Do  you  have  weekday  services  at  your  church?" 

"  Why  should  he  be  at  church?  " 

"  Well,  he  succeeded  in  meeting  your  little  Norah 
this  morning.  I  saw  them  together  walking  along 
that  path  that  goes  through  the  field  —  near  that  red 
farm.  So  he  has  probably  been  let  in  for  a  strong 
sentimental  reaction,  and  that  would  have  driven 
him  ^raight  to  the  nearest  church  —  yes,  propelled 
him  like  a  bullet  through  the  door.  I  can  see  him 
kneeling  in  the  pew  of  repentance  —  flapping  his 
wings  in  the  ecclesiastical  bird  cage." 

"  I'm  sure  there  are  no  weekday  services  here," 
said  Edward.  "  In  fact  I  doubt  if  the  church  would 
be  even  open.  The  Vicar  is  '  Low  ' :  he  would  think 
it  popish  to  worship  on  any  day  but  Sunday." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  Welsh  branched  off.  "  Think  of  the 
difference  in  the  Catholic  ideal.  A  church  should 
be  a  familiar  popular  place ;  there  should  be  no  pews ; 
the  common  people  should  use  it  as  a  daily  thorough- 
fare. Churches  should  always  be  full  of  people  in 
rags,  very  dirty  people,  very  poor  people.  They 
should  always  be  passing  to  and  fro,  kneeling  for  a 
little,  resting  for  a  little,  making  love  for  a  little, 
sporting  everywhere  as  much  as  they  like.  The 
only  really  religious  countries  are  the  countries  where 


112  The  Buffoon 

peasants  light  their  cigarettes  at  the  altar-candles. 
Ah,  they  know  what  religion  is  in  Spain !  " 

"Yes;  but  where  do  you  think  Tryers  is,  as  he 
can't  be  in  church?  " 

"  I  can't  tell.  No,  my  friend,  upon  my  word,  I 
can't  tell."  Welsh  uttered  these  simple  words  with 
great  emphasis  and  solemnity,  as  though  they  were 
charged  with  inordinate  significance.  It  was  a  trick 
he  had  acquired  unconsciously,  Edward  guessed, 
from  speaking  in  public.  So  he  used  it  whenever  his 
thoughts  wandered. 

"  I  thought  of  weekday  services,"  Welsh  went  on 
after  a  pause,  "  because  Reggie  likes  weekday  serv- 
ices. He  says  they  are  more  religious  than  the  serv- 
ices on  Sundays,  and  I  think  he  is  right.  Only  no 
services  in  the  Church  of  England  are  religious. 
Anglicanism  is  the  most  irreligious  sect  that  ever 
existed.  Go  to  a  Baptist  Chapel,  a  Salvation  Army 
meeting,  there's  fire  for  you,  there's  abandonment  — 
real  frenzy  of  belief.  They  know  what  religious 
experience  is,  bless  their  hearts !  But  Anglicanism 
is  the  creed  of  careful  people  who  like  what's  prob- 
able." Welsh  sighed  heavily.  "  Reggie  will  come 
back  to  lunch,  at  any  rate.  I  never  knew  him  not 
to  come  back  to  anybody  else's  lunch.  He  is  like  a 
character  out  of  Juvenal.  Juvenal  is  the  only  author 
who  could  really  have  described  Reggie.  Perhaps 
Petronius  Arbiter — " 

Edward   laughed.     "  Do   you    ever,"    he    asked, 
"  dislike  him  as  much  as  he  dislikes  you?  " 


The  Buffoon  113 

"  I  don't  know."  Welsh  got  up  from  his  chair  as 
he  spoke.  "  I  can't  tell."  He  began  walking  about 
the  room.  "  I  find  it  very  difficult  to  analyse  my 
feelings  towards  Reggie.  I  think  what  I  really  want 
is  to  fool  him,  to  exercise  my  irony  upon  him.  I 
mean  that  I  want  him  to  do  things,  to  be  placed  in 
situations,  that  shall  excite  and  gratify  my  sense  of 
irony.  I  want  to  be  passive  all  the  while,  you  under- 
stand. Yes  —  that  is  really  the  use  I  have  for  Reg- 
gie. I  want  him  to  suffer,  of  course,  in  a  certain 
way;  but  I  don't  want  to  bring  his  suffering  about, 
directly  and  obviously.  No,  that  would  never  do. 
Of  course  he  could  never  understand  what  I  want. 
He  is  extraordinarily  crude;  with  his  particular  kind 
of  energy  he  could  hardly  be  anything  else,  but  his 
very  crudeness  plays  into  my  hands.  I  should  be 
too  lazy  to  deal  with  him  if  he  wasn't  crude.  Of 
course  he  knows  that  I  use  him,  he  regards  me  as  a 
kind  of  Torquemada  of  the  spirit,  but  he  fits  it  all 
into  the  mould  of  his  mind,  and  he  gets  it  all  wrong. 
I'm  not  sure  that  I  get  it  right  myself.  It's  too 
much  trouble.     However  — " 

He  broke  off  with  a  gesture  that  deprecated  the 
idea  of  any  one  taking  too-  much  trouble  about  any- 
thing. Edward  wondered  how  many  conceptions 
this  man  caught  at  daily  like  gilded  butterflies,  and 
idly  let  escape  forever  on  the  moment.  It  was  a 
curious  case  of  energy  that  was  always  starting  off 
and  never  going  on.  Welsh  reminded  him  of  a 
motor  engine  perpetually  ejaculating  explosively  as 


114  The  Buffoon 

for  progress,  responsive  that  far,  and  that  far  only, 
to  turns  of  the  crank. 

"Good  Lord!"  the  subject  of  this  simile  ex- 
claimed suddenly,  "  I  forgot  to  put  on  any  tie  this 
morning."  He  had  caught  sight  of  himself  in  a  mir- 
ror. "Will  your  servant  mind?"  he  inquired  ap- 
prehensively. 

"  Merrion  is  wonderfully  tolerant.  Nothing  of 
that  sort  could  agitate  him.  But  I  see  George  For- 
rest coming  through  the  garden,  and  I  know  that  he 
would  be  upset  by  your  having  no  tie." 

"  I'll  go  to  my  room  at  once."  Welsh  lurched 
hurriedly  to  the  door.  "  The  man  of  influence ! 
Good  Lord!" 

He  was  gone,  and  a  minute  or  so  later  George  ap- 
peared, looking  extremely  grave. 

"What's  the  matter?"  Edward  asked  him. 
"  Was  England  invaded  this  morning  before  break- 
fast? " 

George  sat  down.  He  did  so  earnestly  and  delib- 
erately, as  though  he  had  planned  the  action  before- 
hand with  every  due  regard. 

"  This  Mr.  Tryers,"  he  said,  "  has  behaved  in 
the  most  unpardonable,  the  most  ungentlemanly 
way." 

"  You  interest  me,  George."  Edward  raised  him- 
self a  little  in  his  chair.  "  It  has  always  interested 
me,  this  question  of  what  is  gentlemanly  and  un- 
gentlemanly." 

"  I  am  sure  you  will  agree  with  me,"  George  went 


The  Buffoon  115 

on,  "  that  Mr.  Tryers  has  not  behaved  like  a  gentle- 
man." 

"  Well,  well,  let's  hear  all  about  it." 

"  He's  been  playing  the  cad  with  Norah 
Weekes!" 

"  Making  love  to  her,  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Making  love !  Making  love  to  a  child  like 
that!  You  can  call  it  making  love,  if  you  like.  I 
call  it  disgusting  caddishness.  I  should  have  sup- 
posed that  any  man  would  call  it  that," 

"  Sorry  you're  so  upset;  but  Tryers  had  my  per- 
mission, you  know." 

"  Your  permission !  "  George  raised  his  voice  in- 
dignantly. 

"  Yes.  I  told  him  there  would  be  no  harm  in  his 
amusing  himself  with  her,  if  he  hked." 

"Amusing  himself!"  George  had  a  tedious 
habit  of  echoing  his  interlocutor  when  he  was  en- 
gaged on  a  moral  protest. 

"  Within  limits,  of  course.  I  assure  you,  George, 
I  didn't  give  him  leave  to  seduce  the  girl." 

George  gave  an  ethical  snort. 

"  Of  course  I  didn't  mean  that^  Edward  went 
on.  "  But  he  hasn't,  has  he?  Surely  not  so  early  in 
the  morning?  " 

"  You  are  indecent."  George  spoke  violently. 
"  I'd  better  go,  I  think.  Especially  as  it  was  you 
who  put  the  man  up  to  it." 

"  Up  to  what,  George  ?  Don't  go.  Stay  and  ex- 
plain yourself." 


116  The  Buffoon 

George  was  walking  round  the  room. 

"  That  man,"  he  at  length  observed,  "  is  unfit  for 
the  society  of  decent  people.  You  can't  defend  him, 
Raynes.  You  know  you'd  never  do  a  thing  of  that 
sort  yourself.  You  may  say  all  kinds  of  horrible 
things,  but  you  don't  do  them.     Your  bark  — " 

*'  Yes,  yes,  I  know.  But  tell  me  what  it  is  that  I 
can't  defend  Tryers  for  doing  and  that  I  should 
never  do  myself." 

"  You  know.  Messing  about  with  Norah  —  an 
innocent  country  girl.     It's  the  most  outrageous  — " 

"  My  dear  fellow,  your  idealism  is  incurable. 
Have  you  ever  remarked  Norah's  eyes?  She's  a 
match  for  Tryers  any  day  of  the  week." 

"  Anyhow  that's  not  the  point.  His  caddishness 
is  the  point.  He  got  up  early  this  morning  with  a 
sketch-book  —  a  sketch-book."  George  repeated 
the  word  with  emphasised  disgust.  *'  He  went  out 
after  her,  pretended  he  wanted  to  make  a  sketch  of 
her  for  a  painting — " 

"  My  idea,  George,  I'm  afraid  that  was  my  idea." 

"  He  tried  to  get  her  into  a  field  —  round  into 
some  corner  or  other  where  he  couldn't  be  seen. 
He  tried  to  put  his  arm  round  her  and  get  her  on  his 
knee  and  kiss  her, —  and  all  that  kind  of  thing." 

"But  really  —  I  confess  —  if  she  were  willing? 
Upon  my  word,  I  don't  see  —  Cakes  and  ale, 
George,  cakes  and  ale." 

*'  No,  but  you  don't  understand.  It  was  the  kind 
of  way  he  did  it.     He  did  it  in  a  beastly  kind  of  way. 


rhe  Buffoon  117 

He  was  leading  up  —  innuendoes,  you  know.  What 
right  has  he,"  George  exploded,  "  to  come  down 
here  and  try  to  pollute  a  young  girl's  mind?  " 

"  How  did  you  come  to  hear  all  about  it?  " 

"  Norah  told  me.  I  could  see  at  once  she  was  tell- 
ing the  truth.  She  couldn't  have  invented  the  things 
she  told  me  that  Tryers  said.  They  were  just  the 
kind  of  things  a  blackguard  like  that  would  say." 

"  Tell  me,  is  this  really  all  pure  zeal  for  morality 
on  your  part?  I  shall  begin  to  believe,  you  know, 
that  you're  not  indifferent  to  Norah." 

"  Nonsense."  George  reddened.  "  I  have  the 
same  interest  in  her  that  I  have  in  all  the  boys  and 
girls  of  the  neighbourhood.  I  feel  that  I  have  a 
certain  responsibility.     My  position  — " 

He  broke  off,  embarrassed.  Edward  fixed  a  con- 
templative eye  on  him,  and  said  nothing. 

"  I  very  soon  saw  what  kind  of  a  person  Tryers 
was,"  George  went  on.  "  He  was  extremely  agree- 
able to  me  during  breakfast,  agreeable  in  his  nasty 
sleek  sort  of  way — " 

"'Sleek!'  Moral  indignation's  no  excuse  for 
conventional  epithets.     Tryers  couldn't  be  sleek." 

"  Can't  think  why  you  always  trifle,  Raynes. — 
Well,  my  aunt  had  a  headache.  She  couldn't  come 
down,  so  we  breakfasted  alone.  You  know  how  it 
is  with  men  of  Tryers'  stamp.  They  think  every 
other  man  must  be  as  big  a  scoundrel  as  they  are 
themselves.  After  a  bit  the  fellow  began  talking  to 
me  in  a  way  I  didn't  at  all  like." 


118  The  Buffoon 

"  I  wish  I  had  been  there  !  " 

"  It  didn't  take  me  long  to  realise  that  he  was  a 
cad.  He  must  have  seen  that  I  disapproved,  but  he 
went  on  just  the  same.  I  gave  him  no  encourage- 
ment, but  he  went  on.  He  actually  had  the  audacity 
to  tell  me  of  his  meeting  with  Norah." 

"Yes.  How  did  he  put  it  ?  "  Edward's  interest 
was  quickened. 

"  Said  that  he  had  a  fancy  to  sketch  her,  that  she 
was  a  wonderfully  pretty  girl.  A  temptation  to  him 
—  I  think  that  was  his  phrase." 

"Oh,  yes  —  a  temptation.     Capital!  " 

"  He  said  he  nearly  kissed  her,  but  then  he 
thought  it  wouldn't  be  fair.     Damned  hypocrite !  " 

"  Why  did  he  think  it  wouldn't  be  fair?  Do  tell 
me. 

"  Because,  if  you  please,"  George's  tone  was  bit- 
terly contemptuous,  "  she  was  so  fresh  and  un- 
touched, and  had  never  known  real  passion  — " 

"Capital!  Capital!  As  if  she  could  learn  it 
from  him  at  once.  Tryers'  vanity  is  always  so 
amusing." 

"  Yes,  that  was  practically  what  he  said :  that  he 
wouldn't  be  the  first  to  teach  her.  He  had  expe- 
rienced so  much,  and  she  so  little." 

"  I  know  that  Don  Juan  pose  of  his." 

"  And  he  had  the  impertinence  —  just  imagine  it, 
Raynes  —  the  gross  impertinence  to  say  that  he  gave 
her  up  for  me  —  for  met  " 

Edward  leant  back  in  his  chair  and  laughed  un- 


rhe  Buffoon  119 

restrainedly.  "  That  is  splendid,"  he  exclaimed. 
"  I  thoroughly  appreciate  that." 

"  I  must  confess  I  don't  find  it  amusing,"  George 
observed  coldly.  "  The  more  I  think  of  it,  the  more 
it  disgusts  me.  To  make  out  that  he  had  had  the 
girl  in  his  power,  as  it  were,  and  had  given  her  up, 
because  he  felt  that  it  wouldn't  be  fair  to  me,  that 
1  was  always  here,  that  I  ought  to  be  the  first.  The 
liar !  And  the  real  truth  was  that  he  had  done  all 
he  could  to  —  to  —  er  —  excite  her  feelings  in  his  re- 
pulsive way." 

"  Yes,  I  know."  Edward  was  still  laughing,  si- 
lently now.  "  But  don't  you  see,  dear  old  George, 
how  extremely  entertaining  it  all  is?  Surely  you 
must  — " 

"  I  don't."  George  was  very  decisive.  "  I  have 
never  been  accused  of  lacking  a  sense  of  humour, 
but  really  I  cannot  say  that  I  find  anything  to  laugh 
at  in  such  revolting  meanness  and  hypocrisy  and  hum- 
bug. I  do  not  consider  that  a  liar  and  a  blackguard 
is  amusing.  When  I  think  of  the  things  he  said! 
Fob !  That  he  was  here  to-day  and  gone  to-morrow, 
and  how  selfish  it  would  have  been  of  him  to  have 
taken  his  pleasure,  to  have  plucked  the  flower  and  — 
er  —  what  did  the  blackguard  say?  —  plucked  the 
flower  and  left  it  fading.     It  makes  me  sick." 

"  Then  you  saw  Norah  later  and  she  told  you 
what  had  really  happened?  " 

"  Yes.  I  got  rid  of  Tryers  as  soon  as  I  could,  you 
may  be  sure." 


120  rhe  Buffoon 

"Where  did  he  go?" 

"  I  don't  know.  He  said  something  about  going 
to  bathe.  I  didn't  care  where  he  went,"  George 
added  savagely. 

"  Well,  what  did  Norah  say  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she  said  —  I  happened  to  meet  her  just  by 
her  house  —  she  said :  '  You  wouldn't  be  up  to  any 
of  those  games  of  Mr.  Tryers',  would  you?  '  " 

"  What  had  you  done  to  make  her  say  that?  "  Ed- 
ward questioned  severely. 

"Oh,  I —  What  do  you  mean?  Naturally 
enough,  I  —  I  just  put  my  hand  on  her  shoulder  or 
patted  her  cheek,  or  something  of  that  kind.  I 
really  don't  remember.  It  was  the  natural  thing  to 
do.     I  felt  sorry  for  her." 

"  Of  course.     It  was  an  occasion  for  sympathy." 

"  I've  seen  her  about  since  she  was  practically 
a  baby,  you  know.  She's  still  quite  a  child  to 
me. 

"  Exactly.     Then  she  told  you  all  about  it?  " 

"  Yes.  I'm  sure  she  was  telling  the  truth.  The 
man  had  frightened  her.  No  doubt  about  that. 
The  real  truth  of  the  matter  was  that  she  was  re- 
pelled by  him,  violently  repelled, —  and  no  wonder ! 
She  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  him.  Now  do 
you  see  what  a  cad  he  has  been?  Talking  to  me  as 
he  did,  telling  such  a  pack  of  lies.  Abominable 
meanness  and  crookedness,  that's  what  I  call  it!  " 

"  I  saw  yesterday  that  she  didn't  like  him  much." 

"  She  knew  instinctively  the  kind  of  — " 


The  Buffoon  121 

"  Rot !  He  didn't  happen  to  please  her,  that  was 
all." 

George  sniffed.  "  That's  like  you,  Raynes,"  he 
said.  "  You  reduce  everything  to  the  lowest  level. 
You  don't  believe  in  purity  or  innocence.  You  ex- 
plain them  away.  Thank  God,  I  don't  feel  like 
that." 

Edward  smiled.  "  I  believe  that  a  girl  objects 
to  a  man's  attentions  if  she's  not  attracted  to  him, 
and  doesn't  object  if  she  is.  That's  all.  Quite  % 
simple  proposition.     Not  cynical  in  the  least." 

"  Norah  was  repelled  because  Tryers  is  a  brute. 
Why,  she  didn't  even  let  him  touch  her  hand." 

"  Much  to  her  credit.  Have  it  your  own  way. 
Call  him  '  the  man  Tryers.'  That  will  relieve  you. 
And  tell  me  more." 

"  There's  nothing  more  to  tell." 

"  You  comforted  poor  Norah  a  little,  I  hope  ? 
Told  her  that  all  men  weren't  like  that  —  made  her 
fully  realise  you  were  quite  different?  It  was  a 
splendid  opportunity." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  —  I  tried  to  make  her  feel  easier  in 
her  mind,  of  course.  I  could  hardly  do  anything 
else." 

"  The  girl  is  fond  of  you,  George.  Of  course  you 
know  that?  " 

"  I  hope  she  is."  George  seemed  a  httle  nettled. 
"  I  am  fond  of  her.     No  harm  in  that,  is  there?  " 

"  None  whatever.     Quite  as  it  should  be." 

"  I  wish  the  child  well.     She  is  a  good  girl.     I 


122  The  Buffoon 

hope  to  see  her  a  happy  wife  and  mother  one  of 
these  days." 

Edward  groaned. 

"  I  certainly  do,"  George  continued  with  some 
warmth.  "  I  do  not  want  to  see  her  spoilt  by  the  at- 
tentions of  blackguards.  Do  you?"  He  chal- 
lenged Edward. 

"  Tell  me,"  Edward  asked,  "  did  she  really  give 
you  details  about  Tryers'  wicked  conduct?  That 
must  have  been  exciting.  Did  she  say,  for  example : 
'  He  tried  to  kiss  me.  He  tried  to  take  me  on  his 
knee  '  ?  I  should  like  to  have  heard  her  say  that.  I 
can  just  imagine  how  engagingly  she  would  have  said 
it.  As  Welsh  would  observe,  '  what  an  occasion  ' ! 
Was  she  very  shy?  " 

"  Of  course  she  was  shy.  Any  nice  girl  would 
have  been  shy," 

"  Not  so  shy  as  she  seemed,  I'll  be  bound.  That 
makes  it  all  the  more  attractive :  just  the  right  ele- 
ment of  artificiality,  of  intrigue.  Oh,  my  dear 
George,  you  miss  so  much !  " 

"  I  must  go  now."  George  rose.  "  I  have  a 
great  deal  to  get  through  this  morning.  I  came  to 
you  simply  because  I  wanted  to  make  it  perfectly 
clear  —  perfectly  clear  —  that  I  cannot,  under  any 
circumstances,  meet  this  man  again.  I  thought  it 
best  that  you  should  understand  my  position,  and 
the  reasons  for  my  position." 

"  That's  all  right,  George.  Don't  mention  it." 
Edward  nodded  pleasantly  as  George  went. 


CHAPTER  X 

AS  soon  as  the  front  door  had  closed,  Welsh 
emerged  from  his  retirement  above  stairs. 
Entering  the  room,  he  ejaculated  "  Ha!  " 
just  as  if  he  were  on  the  stage,  and  at  once  went  to 
the  bookcase.  Edward  had  taken  up  his  newspaper, 
and  proceeded  to  read  it.  There  was  silence  undis- 
turbed for  about  half  an  hour.  Then  Edward's 
man  appeared  with  a  telegram,  which  he  handed  to 
Welsh. 

"Yes, —  ah  —  my  friend,"  Welsh  addressed  the 
servant,  "  there  is  an  answer."  He  turned  to  Ed- 
ward. "  A  Socialist  Society  in  London  wants  me  to 
lecture  for  them  to-night  on  '  Art  and  Democracy.' 
Shall  I  accept  ?     Would  you  come  too  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Edward  without  hesitation.  "  We'll 
go  by  the  four  train.     That  suit  you?  " 

Welsh  wrote  out  the  reply  telegram,  and  handed 
it  to  the  servant.  "  Is  that  all  right?  "  he  asked  him 
appealingly.  "  Anything  to  pay  ?  "  He  took  out  a 
handful  of  gold,  silver  and  copper. 

"  Nothing,  sir,"  replied  Merrion.  "  This  is  a 
prepaid  form." 

"Ah — "  Welsh  gave  a  sigh,  and  put  the  money 
back.  "  You  have  no  conception,  my  friend,"  he 
added  to  Edward,  "  how  I  am  worried  by  absurd 

123 


124  The  Buffoon 

transactions  of  this  kind.  They  prick  me  all  over 
like  little  pins,  every  day.  I  suppose  we  shall  have 
to  take  Reggie  with  us?     Where  is  he?  " 

"  He's  in  disgrace." 

"  Why?     How?  "  Welsh  raised  his  voice. 

"  He'll  tell  us  all  about  it  when  he  comes  back. 
It  will  be  more  amusing  for  you  to  have  it  at  first 
hand.  It  seems  he  is  bathing  just  at  present.  Tell 
me  more  about  this  circle  of  Raoul  Root's.  We 
may  meet  some  of  them  to-night,  perhaps?  " 

"  Oh,  no !  "  Welsh  was  emphatic.  "  Oh,  dear  no. 
Not  at  a  Sociahst  lecture.  They  take  no  interest  in 
politics  of  any  kind.  They  represent  a  reaction 
from  Shaw  and  Wells  and  Chesterton,  and  all  that 
lot.  Social  movements  are  quite  out  of  their  sphere. 
They  hate  the  propagandist  school." 

"What?  Back  to  the  'nineties  —  the  aloofness 
of  art  —  all  that  kind  of  thing?  " 

"  Oh,  they  despise  the  'nineties.  The  'nineties 
haven't  any  chance  at  all.  That  is  an  obsolete  pe- 
riod. All  the  nineteenth  century  is  obsolete.  It 
produced  nothing  but  prettiness  and  bombast.  I've 
heard  them  say  that  again  and  again.  They  are 
modern,  my  friend.  They  are  the  last  word  in  mo- 
dernity. They  are  les  ]eunes!*  Welsh's  French  ac- 
cent was  terrible. 

"  Les  seuls  jeunes  authentiques?  " 

"  What's  that?  "  Welsh  looked  puzzled. 

"  Well,"  said  Edward,  *'  how  do  they  make  their 
art  fit  what's  modern?" 


The  Buffoon  125 

Welsh  hesitated.  "  They  write  poetry  that  reads 
like  advertisements.  Root  says  that  everything 
should  come  in:  bathroom  fixtures  should  come  in, 
motorbusses,  Tube  Stations,  telephone  wires, — 
everything.  No  rhymes,  of  course.  No  '  metro- 
nome rhythm.'  " 

"Futurists?" 

"  They  criticise  them.  But  I  tell  you  there  are 
precious  few  artists  that  Root's  set  think  it  worth 
while  to  criticise." 

*'  I've  read  some  of  Root's  verse.  It  gave  me 
pleasure.  Vigour,  certainly.  He  annoyed  me 
rather,  though,  by  using  a  lot  of  absurd  words." 

"Oh,  Root's  verse!"  Welsh's  intonation  was 
equivocal.  "  Yes,  it's  too  much  work.  I  believe 
he  spent  years  of  toil  in  the  British  Museum,  study- 
ing the  lesser  Renaissance  Italians.  That  gave  him 
his  start.  Now  it's  the  lavatory  fixture,  motor-bus, 
tea-shop  vein.  I  don't  read  him.  I  don't  like  them 
in  print,  but  it's  amusing  to  hear  them  talk.  They're 
all  very  casual,  very  off-hand, — damned  rude,  in 
fact,  at  times.  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  my  friend. 
They  have  a  pedantic  and  hide-bound  convention  of 
naturalness,  hes  jeiines  must  be  natural.  And  les 
jeunes  must  be  clever  and  bright.  Seriousness  Is 
nineteenth  century:  les  jeunes  are  to  inaugurate  a  new 
era  of  wit.  Oh,  how  they  keep  the  ball  rolling! 
But  I  assure  you  they  have  no  humour.  It  is  all  very 
naive.  They  are  deliciously  simple.  That  Is  why  I 
almost  like  them.     Their  vanity  and  credulity  are  re- 


126  The  Buffoon 

freshing.  They  will  believe  anything  —  anything 
—  of  one  another." 

"  When  will  you  take  me?  " 

"  Sunday.  I'll  telephone.  You  shall  see  the  Di- 
vinity.    Eunice  Dinwiddie." 

"Yes;  a  beautiful  girl  is  a  beautiful  girl,  what- 
ever '  circle '  she  may  belong  to."  Edward  found 
this  reflection  agreeable. 

"  How  I  shall  enjoy  your  discriminations  when 
the  affair  is  over!  "  Welsh  lapped  up  his  words  in 
a  cat-like  way.  "  You  won't  be  annoyed  by  their  ab- 
surd arrogance,  will  you  ?  They  cultivate  arrogance 
with  German  thoroughness  and  Transatlantic  energy. 
They  are  tremendously  naive.  They  are  much  more 
agreeable  and  interesting  than  their  work.  You 
should  see  their  official  organ.  Crash.  The  prose 
might  be  written  by  cheeky  school  boys,  and  the  verse 
by  homicidal  maniacs.  The  verse!  They  throw 
words  at  you  like  misshapen  bricks.  They  bang  you 
with  a  phrase  here  and  a  phrase  there.  Nothing 
connected." 

"  But  surely  there  was  some  woman.  Five  years 
ago  or  more  —  and  five  years  ago  must  be  the  dead 
past  for  Root's  set.  Some  woman  in  Paris  who  tried 
all  this  elliptical  business  on.  I  was  under  the  im- 
pression that  people  very  soon  found  out  how  easy 
a  trick  it  was,  and  how  little  there  was  in  it." 

"  You're  right!  You're  right!  "  Welsh  was  in 
high  glee.  "  Root  takes  up  various  '  stunts  '  and 
makes  them  go.     He's  an  American.     That's  the 


The  Buffoon  Vll 

real  clue  to  him.  He'd  be  nowhere  without  his 
American  training.     You've  hit  it!     You've  hit  it!  " 

Edward  didn't  feel  that  it  was  quite  this  that  he 
had  hit,  but  he  did  not  interrupt  Welsh. 

"  That's  what  Root  does,"  the  lecturer  continued. 
"  He  follows  in  the  tail  of  these  little  new  move- 
ments. He's  like  a  puppy  dog  on  the  end  of  a 
string!  " 

Edward  was  wondering  how  far  Welsh  had  col- 
oured the  complexion  and  distorted  the  features  of 
this  newest  of  new  circles  of  les  jeunes.  It  was  his 
way,  of  course,  to  colour  and  distort. 

"  What  are  you  thinking?  "  Welsh  asked  abruptly, 
and  Edward  veraciously  replied: 

"  I  was  wondering  if  you  were  giving  me  true  im- 
pressions. You  don't  always,  you  know.  But  I'm 
inclined  to  believe  that  your  judgment  is  singularly 
clear  about  people  outside  your  own  set,  that  you 
have  the  keenest  eye  for  all  their  little  foibles.  You 
convince  yourself  all  the  more,  you  see,  that  way; 
convince  yourself,  I  mean,  that  yours  is  the  circle, 
that  you  and  your  friends  are  of  the  blood  royal,  and 
the  others  pretenders.     Isn't  that  it?  " 

"  Why  of  course  mine  is  the  circle !  "  Welsh 
opened  his  eyes.  "  Who  could  compare  this  Raoul 
Root  with  Tom  Fielding  or  Willie  O'Flaherty? 
You  must  meet  O'Flaherty ;  he  has  real  genius.  The 
most  delicate,  the  most  imaginative,  the  most  fastid- 
ious, the  most  distinguished  spirit!  I  tell  you,  my 
friend,  it  is  the  most  distinguished  circle." 


128  The  Buffoon 


"  And  you,"  Edward  twitted  him,  "  the  pivot  of 
it  all!  The  most  distinguished  of  all  positions  in 
the  most  distinguished  of  all  circles !  I  am  envious, 
I  tell  you,  my  friend,  I  am  envious.  And  here's 
Tryers,"  he  added,  looking  out  of  the  window. 

"Ah!"  Welsh  collapsed. 

"  Tryers  has  an  air  of  disparagement  about  him 
this  morning,"  Edward  went  on. 

"Ah,"  said  Welsh  again.  "I  wonder,"— he 
spoke  curiously  flatly  — "  I  wonder  what  he'll  tell  us 
about  his  morning's  adventure?  " 


CHAPTER  XI 

TRYERS  had  met  the  Httle  girl,  oh,  yes  —  but 
the  mood  which  had  made  him  want  to 
meet  her  had  passed  very  quickly.  He 
was  more  and  more  sure  that  that  kind  of  mood  was 
an  enemy  to  him,  and  besides,  its  power  was  weak- 
ening, no  doubt  of  that.  He  spoke,  with  calm  and 
severe  decision,  of  a  great  change  impending. 

"  There  is  a  change,"  Edward  got  a  word  In  at 
last,  "  a  change  of  a  slighter  sort  impending  this 
afternoon.  Welsh  is  to  lecture  to-night  for  some 
Socialists  in  London,  and  I  am  going  with  him." 

Tryers  coloured.  "  I  thought  you  had  asked  me 
to  stay  for  the  week-end,"  he  said  huffily, 

"  So  I  did.  But  Welsh,  you  see,  has  taken  your 
place  as  my  guest,  and  Welsh  wants  to  go." 

"  I  shall  stay  on  at  the  Inn,"  Tryers  remarked 
after  a  pause.  "  I  am  very  comfortable  there,  and 
your  bathing  is  excellent.  And  I  feel  that  I  need 
the  country  air."  He  spoke  with  a  marked  attempt 
at  dignity. 

"  All  right,"  said  Edward.  "  Use  my  boat,  of 
course." 

It  was  an  exasperating  morning  for  Tryers. 
Welsh  and  Edward  started  a  discussion  about  Rus- 

129 


130  The  Buffoon 

sian  authors,  a  discussion  deliberately  provoked,  so 
Tryers  thought,  in  order  to  ignore  him.  For  a  time 
he  made  petulant  interruptions,  and  at  last,  finding 
it  impossible  to  ruffle  the  equanimity  of  the  critics, 
he  abruptly  took  his  leave. 

Edward  and  Welsh  looked  at  each  other  as  the 
door  shut. 

"  Gone  just  before  lunch!  "  cried  Welsh.  "  He 
must  be  very  much  annoyed." 

"  Of  course  one  must  remember,"  Edward  spoke 
as  though  he  were  alluding  to  a  very  remote  event, 
"  that  he  was  rebuffed  this  morning." 

"  Yes,"  Welsh  agreed.  "  Norah.  Evidently  a 
serious  rebuff.     There  were  all  the  usual  signs." 

They  fell  again  to  talking  of  Tchekoff. 


CHAPTER  XII 

EDWARD  had  begun  to  be  affected  by  an  un- 
usual sense  of  anticipation.  Something, 
he  felt,  was  going  to  happen,  something  ex- 
citing and  unprecedented.  He  laughed  at  himself, 
but  he  did  not  laugh  himself  out  of  his  impression. 

It  was  the  case  that  is  general  with  premonitions 
of  the  kind.  For  some  time  Edward,  in  unconscious 
rebellion  against  his  derisive  "  control,"  had  been 
growing  towards  a  change,  and  the  incidents  of  the 
last  few  hours  had  forced  the  growth.  This  was 
why  he  so  readily  felt  that  new  experiences  were 
hanging  for  him  in  mysterious  air,  this  was  why  he 
purringly  prepared  himself  to  co-operate  with 
destiny.  But  though  he  purred,  he  was  roused. 
Welsh's  influence  played  its  part:  his  perpetual  inti- 
mation of  "something  exciting!  you  will  see,  my 
friend !  ",  his  stimulating  exclamation  marks,  had 
their  effect  in  happy  time.  Edward  let  himself  go, 
much  more  emotionally  than  was  "  in  character  "  for 
him,  towards  the  future.  No  one  can  ever  be  "  in 
character  "  all  the  time :  human  nature  is  not  adapted 
for  a  strain  like  that. 

Anticipations  beguiled  Edward's  journey  in  the 
train,  they  engaged  him  in  the  taxi-cab  to  the  hotel, 
they  interpolated  themselves  with  unflagging  liveli- 

131 


132  The  Buffoon 

ness  during  his  dinner  with  Welsh.  They  had  to 
dine  early  as  the  lecture  was  for  eight-fifteen,  and 
Edward  as  a  rule  much  disliked  dining  early.  But 
he  found  that  these  anticipations  of  his  reconciled 
him  to  a  great  deal  of  inconvenience;  very  fortu- 
nately reconciled  him,  for  any  one  going  about  with 
Welsh  had  to  put  up  with  inconveniences  at  all  turns. 
On  this  particular  occasion  Welsh  had  begun  by  pack- 
ing his  bag  before  Edward's  man  could  get  at  it,  and 
he  had  left  all  his  collars  behind  in  a  drawer  of  his 
room.  He  had  discovered  the  collars  to  be  missing 
some  ten  minutes  after  the  train  had  started,  and  the 
oversight  had  distressed  him  acutely.  "  I  cannot 
possibly  lecture  in  a  flannel  shirt,"  he  repeated 
mournfully  again  and  again,  and  Edward  vainly  as- 
sured him  that  a  flannel  shirt  would  be  just  what  the 
Socialists  would  like.  Then  Edward  offered  some 
of  his  own  collars,  if  they  would  fit:  he  asked  Welsh 
what  size  he  took,  and  Welsh  hadn't,  of  course,  the 
remotest  Idea.  He  fell  to  a  lively  discussion  of  the 
shape  of  Edward's  neck  and  the  various  qualities 
thereby  Indicated:  he  compared  the  neck  with  those 
of  various  statues  of  Roman  Emperors;  Nero,  of 
course,  was  prominent  among  them  and  occasioned 
several  picturesque  historical  debouches:  further 
comparisons  followed  In  swift  succession,  Antlnous 
and  Apollo  were  invoked,  and  there  was  much  talk 
of  Hadrian.  It  was  not  till  the  train  stopped  at 
Three  Bridges  that  Welsh  was  persuaded  to  apply 
himself  to  the  practical  test  of  putting  on  the  collar 


The  Buffoon  133 

which  Edward  had  taken  out  of  his  bag  while  one 
of  the  orations  was  in  progress.  The  stiffness  of  the 
linen  appalled  the  lecturer.  "  How  can  you  wear 
them?  "  he  cried.  "  What  can  be  done  with  these 
button-holes?  "  Edward  efficiently  prised  them  open 
with  a  tiny  blade  of  his  knife,  and  Welsh  received 
the  collar  from  his  hands  with  a  look  of  helplessness 
complete  and  irremediable.  He  surveyed  the  collar 
as  Sisyphus  might  have  surveyed  his  stone.  He  let 
it  drop  on  the  floor.  His  companion  picked  it  up 
and  put  it  round  his  neck,  Welsh  grimacing  horribly 
the  while. 

"  No  good,"  said  Edward.  "  The  collar  is  ob- 
viously at  least  two  sizes  too  small.  You  would  be 
strangled  in  it." 

"Strangled!"  Welsh  repeated.  "Strangled! 
What  can  be  done  ?  "     He  was  alarmed. 

At  Victoria  nothing  could  dissuade  him  from  mak- 
ing fevered  inquiries  for  collars  at  the  Bookstalls  and 
the  Tobacco  Stand:  he  asked  advice,  most  deferen- 
tially, of  a  porter  who  was  helpful  to  the  extent  of  in- 
dicating a  shop  in  Wilton  Street.  "  Wilton  Street !  " 
Welsh  echoed,  as  though  that  locality  were  a  dis- 
covered refuge  and  protection  forever.  He  went 
off  post-haste,  leaving  Edward  on  the  platform  with 
the  luggage.  Edward,  who  felt  like  a  subordinate 
character  in  a  knockabout  farce,  walked  up  and 
down,  smoking  cigarettes  and  preserving  his  equa- 
nimity. It  was  something  that  Welsh,  when  he  re- 
turned, actually  had  a  parcel  of  collars.     He  was  tri- 


134  The  Buffoon 

umphant,  he  felt  sure  he  had  something  to  fit,  be- 
cause he  had  bought  several  different  sizes.  This 
he  explained  carefully,  as  though  anxious  to  convince 
his  companion  of  his  foresight  and  prudence. 

Welsh  was  inconvenient,  too,  when  they  reached 
the  hotel.  Edward  had  asked  him  if  he  approved 
of  their  staying  at  "  The  Regent,"  and  Welsh  had 
enthusiastically  agreed,  saying  that  he  liked  the  name, 
it  reminded  him  of  Bath  and  Beau  Brummel,  he  was 
sure  all  the  servants  would  wear  powdered  wigs  and 
have  an  eighteenth-century  manner.  But  when  they 
arrived,  panic  seized  him.  The  place,  he  said,  was 
"  too  formidable,"  he  would  be  "  terrified  of  the 
officials,"  he  was  "  sure  they  would  suspect  him  of 
something."  Couldn't  they  go  to  some  little  inn  in 
Gower  Street,  or  perhaps  turn  back  to  the  Vauxhall 
Bridge  Road,  where  he  had  once  taken  a  bedroom, 
and  though  he  had  forgotten  the  number,  he  thought 
he  knew  more  or  less  where  it  was.  However  Ed- 
ward was  firm,  he  reminded  Welsh  of  that  pregnant 
line  of  Swinburne, 

**  Bugs  hath  she  brought  from  London  beds," 
and  clinched  the  matter  by  getting  out  of  the  cab  and 
signalling  to  the  hotel  porter  to  take  the  luggage. 
Welsh  followed  piteously,  more  than  usually  bowed, 
quite  crumpled,  in  fact.  "  Do  not  abuse  me,  I  beg," 
his  aspect  implied,  "  you  see  I'm  humbled  to  the 
dust."  Edward  took  him  into  consideration  later  on 
by  securing  a  table  in  the  most  obscure  and  secluded 
corner  of  the  dining-room. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THEY  arrived  at  the  lecture  hall  about  fifteen 
minutes  late.  People  were  there  In  full 
muster,  giving  a  partial  attention  to  the 
chairman  who  was  trying  to  beguile  their  impatience 
by  announcements  and  preliminary  remarks. 

"  Comrade  Wimpole,"  he  was  saying  in  defiant 
tones,  as  Edward  and  Welsh  came  in,  "  Comrade 
Arthur  Wimpole,  who  has  been  doing  such  mag- 
nificent work  in  Leicester  —  magnificent  work  — 
I'm  sure  you  are  all  aware  — " 

At  that  moment  the  audience  saw  Welsh,  and  cut 
the  chairman's  remarks  short  by  a  burst  of  cheering, 
which  increased  In  volume  as  the  lecturer  walked 
down  the  side  of  the  hall.  Edward  slipped  into  a 
corner  seat,  and  Welsh  pursued  his  course  swiftly  to- 
wards the  platform.  Male  members  of  the  audience 
began  to  shout  and  stamp  their  feet,  while  the  women 
clapped  their  hands  energetically. 

The  chairman  raised  his  arm.  "Friends!"  he 
shouted,  "  Fellow  Workers !  Here  is  Comrade 
Welsh  among  us  again." 

Opportunely  Welsh  appeared  on  the  platform,  still 
in  his  overcoat,  which  hung  about  him,  unbuttoned, 
like  a  black  mantle,  giving  him  a  Mephistophelian 

135 


136  The  Buffoon 

appearance.  The  applause,  which  had  subsided  for 
a  moment,  redoubled.  The  chairman  stood  waiting, 
with  a  thin  forced  smile  on  his  countenance.  His 
eyes  remained  grave.  He  was  a  little  man  called 
Routh,  very  spare,  very  pale,  very  wiry;  clean 
shaven,  with  short  grey  stubbly  hair.  He  had  a 
withered  look  as  though  he  had  been  long  since 
drained  dry  of  natural  sap.  All  joy  of  life,  it  would 
seem,  had  deserted  him  in  his  infancy.  His  expres- 
sion indicated,  more  than  anything  else,  determined 
hostility,  and  each  line  of  his  face  gave  the  impres- 
sion of  not  having  come  there  by  nature,  but  of  hav- 
ing been  drawn  by  his  own  obstinate  will.  "  A  sav- 
age little  white  man  who  wants  to  bite  something," 
was  Edward's  comment.  Soon  he  began  to  shout 
again. 

"  You  don't  expect  formalities  from  met "  he 
cried.  (As  much  as  to  say:  "  If  you  do,  damn  you, 
I'll  have  you  all  shot.")  "This  is  no  bread-and- 
butter  drawing-room  meeting.  It  Is  a  meeting  of 
men  and  women  —  men  and  women."  His  em- 
phasis was  ferocious:  Edward  saw  the  sexes  stark 
and  bleak.  "  And  we,"  the  speaker  continued, 
"  have  adopted  the  only  sane,  the  only  just  creed 
that  men  and  women  of  to-day  are  able  to  adopt. 
We  are  Socialists."  He  stopped,  evidently  expect- 
ing applause  at  this  point,  but  the  audience  failed  him. 

One  man  cried  "  Agreed !  "  in  a  terse  discouraging 
tone.  Edward  looked  up :  the  man  was  In  the  front 
row  of  the  gallery  to  the  side :  he  was  leaning  heavily 


The  Buffoon  137 

over  the  railing  with  lank  arms  dropped  and  hands 
clasped  tightly  together.  He  was  middle-aged  and 
consumptive-looking,  with  a  ragged  brownish  beard ; 
altogether,  Edward  thought,  one  of  the  most  de- 
pressing people  he  had  ever  seen,  the  kind  of  person 
to  chill  any  enthusiasm  at  any  moment.  His  next 
door  neighbour  was  a  girl,  and  when  Edward's 
glance  had  shifted  to  her,  it  did  not  shift  again  for 
some  time.  She  was  certainly  most  incongruously 
juxtaposed,  and  evidently  she  was  bent,  in  self-de- 
fence, on  emphasising  the  incongruity.  How  did  she 
manage  it,  Edward  wondered,  how  did  she  contrive 
that  physical  atmosphere  of  aloofness,  how  was  it 
that  she  proclaimed  so  unmistakably  yet  with  so  aptly 
moderated,  so  finely  judged  a  tone  of  demeanour, 
that  she  was  not  of  these  others,  that  she  was  there 
from  motives  far  beyond  any  grasp  of  theirs? 
"  Some  one  will  understand,'*  she  seemed  to  say, 
"  some  one  will  understand." 

The  chairman  went  on  talking,  and  Edward  caught 
words  here  and  there: 

" —  the  great  regeneration  —  the  promised  land 
—  the  principles  on  which  we  rest  secure  —  confi- 
dent of  ultimate  victory  —  advancing  by  leaps  and 
bounds — " 

The  audience  was  growing  impatient.  Welsh  sat 
on  a  chair  at  the  back  of  the  platform,  his  head  in 
his  hands ;  he  remained  motionless,  and  Edward  won- 
dered If  he  had  fallen  asleep.  How  delicately  that 
girl  Inclined  her  body  forward !     It  was  really  a  no- 


138  The  Buffoon 

table  curve,  a  tense  and  considered  droop,  one  might 
say.  .  .  . 

"Comrade  Welsh!"  the  chairman  turned  upon 
the  lecturer,  who  started  and  held  up  a  hand  as 
though  to  ward  off  an  unexpected  blow.  "  Comrade 
Welsh!  We  welcome  you.  You  come  to-night  to 
speak  to  us  in  the  name  of  Democracy,  on  '  Art  and 
Democracy '." 

He  sat  down  suddenly,  and  Welsh  moved  to  the 
front  of  the  platform,  talking  as  he  moved. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  if  you  will  pardon  me 
the  expression  — " 

The  audience  had  expected  a  moment's  interval 
for  applause.  Welsh  had  taken  them  by  surprise, 
but  they  were  not  to  be  cheated  out  of  their  demon- 
stration. 

"  I  am  glad,"  he  went  on,  when  the  shouting  and 
clapping  were  nearly  over,  "  I  am  glad  that  you  do 
pardon  me.  I  can  assure  you,  my  friends,  my 
brothers  and  sisters,  my  comrades,  if  I  may  use  that 
characteristically  humorous  and  whimsical  phrase 
of  our  chairman  — " 

Comrade  Routh's  back  stiffened.  He  glanced 
suspiciously  at  Welsh.  There  was  some  laughter, 
and  one  angry  female  voice  cried  shrilly:  "  Shame  1 
shame !  " 

"  I  can  assure  you,"  Welsh  continued,  "  that  in 
all  my  goings  about, —  in  England,  in  Germany,  in 
America, —  I  can  assure  you  that  I  have  seen  no 
ladies,  but  these  sitting  here  before  me  to-night  with 


rhe  Buffoon  139 

their   tawdry   trinkets   and   their   shabby   clothes." 

Was  he  mad?  thought  Edward.  To  begin  with 
the  imphcation  that  they  were  really  the  scum  of 
the  earth,  but  he  preferred  them  to  ladies !  Edward 
looked  at  the  women's  faces:  some  seemed  to  hint 
at  resentment,  but  all  were  interested. 

"  As  for  '  shame,'  "  Welsh  uttered  the  word  with 
infinite  contempt,  "  we  all  heard  just  now,  in  flute- 
like female  accents,  that  syllable  pronounced." 
("The  woman  will  kill  him,"  thought  Edward.) 
"  But  I  have  no  shame.  I  —  and  you,  my  friends, — 
and  you, —  are  without  shame.  We  stand  up 
shameless  before  our  Gods.  Why  cry  '  Shame, 
shame!  '  where  there  is  no  shame?  It  is  a  wonder- 
ful thought,  an  inspiring  thought,  a  thought  that  will 
carry  us  far,  a  thought  that  is,  as  the  Americans  say, 
'  worth  while,' —  that  here,  in  this  remarkable  hall, 
in  this  district  of  Bayswater,  there  are  gathered  to- 
gether more  than  five  hundred  people,  all  of  whom 
are  totally  destitute  of  shame." 

Edward  looked  up  again  at  the  girl  in  the  galllery. 
Her  lips  were  slightly  parted,  her  expression  more 
enigmatical  than  ever.  As  he  looked,  her  lips  moved 
hardly  perceptibly,  like  petals  just  stirred  by  the 
ghost  of  a  breeze  on  a  day  almost  windless,  in  the 
most  secluded  corner  of  the  most  secluded  of  gar- 
dens. "  I  know:  "  she  seemed  to  intimate.  "  This 
is  a  cipher  that  I  can  read.  I  and  I  only  was  born 
to  read  it." 

*'  If  we  have  shame,"  Welsh  went  on,   with  a 


140  The  Buffoon 

dominant  sweeping  gesture  that  banished  shame  for- 
ever to  the  barbarians,  "  if  we  have  shame,  we  can 
neither  be  artists  nor  democrats.  There  are  some,  I 
know,  who  call  themselves  artists,  who  will  talk  to 
you  of  '  proper  shame,'  who  will  enunciate  rever- 
entially the  word  '  aidos,'  by  which  they  mean  the 
morbid  and  craven  fear  that  barred  the  approach  of 
the  artist  to  Life,  in  unregenerate  days.  Here,  my 
friends," — his  speech  quickened,  he  began  to  talk 
more  violently  and  with  more  conviction  — "  here  I 
would  indicate  to  you  the  nature  of  the  great  revolu- 
tion which  democracy  is  making  for  art.  The  artist 
of  the  future  —  and,  of  course  the  future  is  the  Peo- 
ple's, the  whole  People's,  and  nothing  but  the  Peo- 
ple's — " 

Comrade  Routh's  pale  eyes  glistened.  He  half 
rose,  and  began  clapping  his  hands  viciously  to- 
gether. The  audience  followed  his  lead  at  once: 
one  earnest  young  man  sitting  near  Edward,  dressed 
in  shiny  black,  looking  as  though  he  belonged  to  the 
Salvation  Army, —  pasty-faced,  pimpled,  blonde- 
moustach'd, —  shouted:  "Down  with  the  para- 
sites! "  and  for  a  time  everything  was  in  an  uproar. 
Edward  was  annoyed.  Why  had  Welsh  brought 
this  about?  He  must  have  known. —  There  was 
the  girl  in  the  gallery,  drooping  a  little  more  under 
such  vulgar  pressure  of  noise,  giving  her  pained  re- 
buff to  these  gross  activities  in  progress.  A  rude 
wind  had  unpardonably  found  its  way  to  her  gar- 
den, she  —  Edward  pulled  up  his  reflections  short. 


The  Buffoon  141 

"  Good  Lord!  "  he  said  to  himself,  "  I  must  really 
be  careful." —  But  why  on  earth  had  Welsh  in- 
voked that  brutal  demonstration?  Edward  did  not 
realise  the  pressure  that  an  audience  brings  to  bear 
upon  a  speaker,  he  did  not  know  that  an  orator,  par- 
ticularly an  orator  like  Welsh,  cannot  keep  himself 
from  saying  the  kind  of  things  that  his  people  want 
him  to  say. 

"  Your  democratic  artist,"  Welsh  was  able  to  con- 
tinue at  last,  ''  your  democratic  artist  spits  out  all  the 
old  shibboleths  —  spits  them  out,  if  need  be,  into  the 
very  faces  of  their  High  Priests."  Comrade  Routh 
looked  as  though  he  were  about  to  spit  himself,  for 
illustration.  "  We  of  the  new  heaven  and  the  new 
earth  will  speak  how  we  will,  and  of  what  we  will. 
Art,  with  the  new  inspiration  of  Democracy,  will 
tamper  with  every  forbidden  thing.  The  need  of 
the  People  is  revelation!  Every  corner  must  be 
revealed  by  the  artist,  the  avenger  of  the  mob,  the 
artist  who  shall  be  Lucifer  bringer  of  light,  Lucifer 
son  of  the  morning!  " 

He  threw  his  head  back  with  a  .fine  gesture  of 
pride  and  defiance.  The  audience  kept  quiet,  too 
much  subdued  by  him  now  to  applaud. 

"  It  is  the  artist,  the  artist,  who  shall  make  the 
great  exposure.  There  is  nothing  that  shall  not  be 
spoken.  These  well-protected  ones,  they  have  their 
secrets,  they  live  on  their  secrets,  but  we  will  tear 
their  secrets  out  of  their  very  bowels.  The  world 
shall  know  what  shelters  them,  what  feeds  them  and 


142  The  Buffoon 

what  gives  them  drink.  The  world  shall  hear  of  it ! 
Hear  of  what?  —  Of  men  and  women  starved  and 
worked  to  death,  of  children  ravished.  Yes,  we 
shall  know  the  lies  of  religion  and  morality,  we  shall 
know  the  sanctified  indecencies  of  marriage,  the  con- 
secrated cruelties  of  that  property-lust  by  which 
marriage  was  begotten!  And  some  will  cry 
'  Shame !  Shame ! '  But  we  shall  not  be  brought 
to  silence." 

As  Welsh  spoke,  Edward  observed  the  faces  In 
the  audience.  Nearly  all  were  emotionally  stirred, 
and  the  experience  seemed  to  bear  some  down  be- 
low their  usual  level,  to  raise  others  above  it.  The 
former  class  wore  a  look  of  dull  sensuality,  a  look  of 
limp  and  flaccid  lust  unredeemed  by  ecstasy;  it 
seemed  that  they  were  wallowing  and  gorging.  The 
latter,  young  men  and  girls  for  the  most  part,  were 
genuinely  kindled,  keyed  to  a  more  clearly-toned, 
more  vibrant  emotional  pitch.  Their  faces  showed 
heightened  expression.  Certain  others,  of  middle 
and  past  middle  age,  underwent  a  pseudo-excitement: 
they  enjoyed  their  elderly  little  thrills,  but  they  could 
not  surrender  to  them.  They  shook  their  heads  and 
pursed  their  lips  and  smiled  in  a  deprecating  way, 
they  threw  their  soft  shapeless  sops  to  the  proprie- 
ties. Meanwhile  the  girl  in  the  gallery  preserved 
her  demeanour,  peculiarly  Individual,  untainted  by 
any  example.  Her  droop  varied  a  little,  her  lips 
opened  a  little  more  or  a  little  less,  but  her  air  of 
sovereign  withdrawal  was  not  diminished.     She  kept 


The  Buffoon  143 

that  closed  look,  that  veiled  Intimation  of  a  higher 
appreciation  of  what  Welsh  was  saying;  she  was  still 
of  that  spiritual  order  which  divides  itself  from  those 
of  the  lesser  disciples.  Who  could  she  be?  Ed- 
ward's Interest  in  her  positively  caused  him  an  uneasy 
blush.  Even  the  eloquence  of  Welsh  and  the  varied 
reactions  of  that  eloquence  upon  the  audience  could 
not  keep  his  mind  from  this  girl.  The  orator's  voice 
kept  beating  against  the  outer  doors  of  his  conscious- 
ness. But  none  the  less  he  found  himself,  at  in- 
tervals, gauging  Welsh's  character  as  a  speaker, 
gauging,  too,  without  any  marked  abatement  of  the 
satisfaction  that  criticism  usually  gave  him. 

He  noticed  that  Welsh  was  subject  to  extraor- 
dinary lapses,  lapses  that  became  more  and  more 
flagrant  and  frequent  as  he  established  his  hold  over 
his  people.  First  he  hypnotised  them  by  incanta- 
tions of  some  genuine  power;  then  he  would  reel  off 
clap-trap,  launch  joyously  into  bombast,  strike  out 
shamelessly  for  naked  melodrama.  Suddenly  all 
this  would  bore  him,  and  he  would  say  something 
that  really  interested  him;  phrasing  It  with  such 
audacity,  giving  it  such  an  edge  that  his  hearers 
started  as  though  the  edge  had  cut  their  flesh.  His 
wit  helped  him  too.  He  was  speaking  of  St.  Paul 
— "  the  aristocrat  of  aristocrats,  but  no  philoso- 
pher." 

"  Sir!  "  an  intent  young  mechanic  jumped  to  his 
feet,  flourishing  his  note-book,  "  you  told  us  before 
that  Paul  was  a  philosopher!  " 


144  The  Buffoon 

Welsh  regarded  the  interrupter  with  deprecating 
sweetness.  He  replied,  delicately  remonstrant: 
"Oh,  sir!  We  call  him  a  philosopher  in  Bays- 
water." 

He  spoke  of  the  peculiar  academic  snobbishness 
of  literary  gentlemen,  of  how  they  buried  themselves 
under  the  fallen  leaves  of  this  tradition  or  that, 
ashamed  to  show  their  own  actual  contours  more 
than  was  conventionally  decent,  so  in  the  end  losing 
the  sense  of  themselves  entirely.  Then  he  attacked 
the  too  conscious  reactions  against  tradition;  he  in- 
dicated Raoul  Root  and  his  following.  Socialism, 
he  said,  would  change  all  this  to  the  great  benefit  of 
art.  Through  Socialism  we  would  reach  to  the  best 
Individualism.  Welsh  summarised,  rapidly  and 
with  great  vigour,  Oscar  Wilde's  Essay  on  "  The 
Soul  of  Man  under  Socialism."  "  But  this  is  all 
right,"  thought  Edward.  "  I  don't  suppose  any  of 
them  have  read  it." 

Welsh  spoke  admirably,  too,  when  he  put  art  into 
its  place  for  Socialists.  "  The  artist  refines  our  per- 
ceptions, and  even  Socialists  need  some  refinement." 
He  dashed  out,  genuinely  stirred  again  now,  to  an 
ardent  offensive  that  made  Comrade  Routh  wriggle 
in  his  chair.  He  attacked  "  the  hide-bound  conven- 
tions of  the  Progressive," —  in  particular  the  con- 
vention of  community  of  feeling,  the  convention  that 
"  we  must  all  fall  in  comradeship  on  one  another's 
necks."  "  I  have  a  right  to  choose,"  he  declared, 
"  the  people  on  whose  necks  I  am  to  fall.     I  see 


The  Buffoon  145 

some  here  before  me  to-night  whom  I  would  will- 
ingly embrace :  I  see  others  whom  I  would  not  of 
my  free  choice  even  touch  —  no,  not  even  the  tips  of 
their  fingers  with  the  tips  of  mine !  " 

This  announcement  caused  a  great  sensation  and 
some  embarrassment:  many  of  the  women  looked 
conscious.  The  girl  in  the  gallery,  by  a  fugitive 
glance  round  her,  and  a  slight  modification  of  her 
curve,  implied  that  she  felt  eminently  with  Welsh, 
but  that  the  quality  of  her  feeling  was  more  fastidi- 
ous. She  would  embrace,  it  seemed,  but  one  to 
Welsh's  three  —  no  more. 

"  No,"  Welsh  continued,  "  we  must  have  reserve, 
wc  must  have  taste  —  selection  by  taste.  Deny 
taste,  you  deny  freedom." 

The  attack  persisted.  That  partial  and  special- 
ised apprehension  of  so  many  of  our  "  Comrades," 
their  inabihty  to  co-ordinate  all  the  phases  of  life, — 
there  was  actual  tyranny  in  that,  and  promise  of  a 
tyranny  more  oppressive.  Welsh  went  on  to  speak 
of  the  limitations  of  the  proletariat,  and  Edward  lis- 
tened to  a  paraphrase,  at  length,  of  his  own  words  on 
that  subject,  with  recognition  of  him  as  "  the  most  in- 
transigeant  living  individualist."  Then  the  orator 
undertook  a  definition  of  what  humanity  and  hu- 
manism really  meant ;  suddenly,  to  Edward's  amaze- 
ment, he  swept  irresistibly  down  to  the  lower  level 
of  his  hearers,  he  fell  torrentially  in  a  tropical 
shower  of  balderdash.  "  Beat  not  the  bones  of  the 
buried:  while  he  lived,  he  was  a  man."     It  was  this 


146  The  Buffoon 

quotation  that  started  Welsh  off.  "  He  may  have 
been  the  veriest  scoundrel,  he  may  have  been  a  blink- 
ing idiot,  an  owl,  a  zany,  a  doddipoU;  a  liar,  a  thief, 
a  ravisher,  a  murderer,  an  abomination  of  desola- 
tion, bathed  in  the  mire  of  the  bottomless  pit,  stink- 
ing from  hell  to  heaven, —  what  matter?  Let  us 
recognise  the  essential  honourableness  of  flesh  and 
blood  as  flesh  and  blood.  Let  us  approach  him  not 
only  with  tolerance,  not  only  with  affection,  but  with 
reverence, —  yes,  my  friends,  I  say  with  reverence, 
for  he  is  human.  '  Beat  not  the  bones  of  the  buried: 
while  he  lived,  he  was  a  man.'  " 

Edward's  gaze  was  fixed  on  the  girl  in  the  gallery. 
She  betrayed  nothing.  Her  hints  of  herself  were 
growing  more  and  more  obscure.  She  was  enig- 
matical, all  over.  "Absurd!  "  Edward  murmured. 
"  I  don't  believe  there  is  any  enigma  about  it.  She's 
a  woman,  very  much  a  woman,  and  that  is  her  way." 
But  he  could  not  dismiss  her. 

Welsh  went  on  in  this  vein,  with  eulogistic  tirades 
about  publicans  and  harlots,  "  the  outcast  and  de- 
spised, who  are  the  chosen  of  Christ,  and  of  all  the 
Christs  of  the  world."  The  limitations  of  the  pro- 
letariat were  quite  forgotten.  Edward  observed 
that  a  look  of  bewilderment  descended  upon  the 
more  intelligent  faces,  while  the  unintelligent  stressed 
their  heavy  sensual  aspect.  But  at  least  the  man  was 
varied:  if  the  lecture  were  more  even,  if  there  were 
no  lapses,  would  it,  Edward  wondered,  be  so  re- 
markable?    Welsh  certainly  was  born  an  orator: 


The  Buffoon  147 

he  had,  it  seemed  by  nature,  all  the  devices  of  the  art. 
Impossible  to  believe  that  he  had  ever  studied  them. 
No  speech  that  Edward  had  ever  heard  had  been  so 
authentically  stamped  impromptu.  What  fascina- 
tion there  was  in  that!  in  knowing  that  anything 
might  come  next,  that  everything  depended  on 
chance,  on  the  look  of  a  face  in  the  audience,  the  re- 
flection of  the  gas  on  a  certain  spot,  the  floating  recol- 
lections of  Welsh's  mind,  the  digestion  of  Welsh's 
bread-and-milk !  Yes,  the  man  was  amazing. 
What  if  he  could  make  him  drunk?  He  would  very 
much  like  to  hear  a  drunken  Jack  Welsh  talk. 
That  was  an  idea.  But  how  much  more  he  would 
like  to  listen  to  that  girl  up  there!  How  still  she 
was !  For  the  last  ten  minutes  she  had  sat  without 
the  change  of  a  curve,  without  the  movement  of  a 
feature. 

Welsh  was  evidently  winding  up.  He  did  not  do 
it  so  well  as  Edward  expected ;  he  took  too  long,  he 
got  himself  into  twisted  paths  and  could  not  find  the 
right  turning.  Evidently  he  was  rather  exhausted. 
Edward  reflected  that  perorations  were  not  likely  to 
come  by  nature.  A  pity,  perhaps,  that  Welsh  did 
not  make  a  rough  draft  of  what  was  to  come  right 
at  the  end.  But  he  never  would  do  that.  At  last,  in 
a  desperation  for  which  he  drew  renewed  energy, 
the  lecturer  plunged  to  his  goal.  He  broke  off 
abruptly,  sprang  straight  into  his  thickets  and 
through  them. 

"  My   friends !     I   have   finished.     My   friends ! 


148  The  Buffoon 

we  have  done  with  words.  I  leave  you  to  thought, 
I  leave  you  to  action.  And  when  I  say  action  I 
mean  rebellion,  I  mean  revolution !  "  Interruption 
by  perfunctory  applause.  "Remember!  Beyond 
the  old  governments,  beyond  Oligarchy  and  Mon- 
archy and  Plutocracy,  beyond  these  is  the  govern- 
ment of  the  People,  the  government  called  Democ- 
racy, never  yet  tried ;  yes,  I  say  we  have  not  tried  it 
yet.  With  Democracy  comes  Socialism :  but  beyond 
Socialism  is  Anarchy,  and  beyond  Anarchy  is  An- 
archy again,  and  yet  again  Anarchy !  Anarchy,  my 
brothers,  this  is  my  last  word  to  you  —  Anarchy ! 
Anarchy!  " 

Edward  put  on  his  hat,  took  his  stick,  and  looked 
for  the  hundredth  time  to  that  especial  corner  of  the 
gallery.  She  was  gone !  He  dashed  for  the  near- 
est door.  As  he  made  his  way  through  the  crowd 
he  was  conscious  of  a  flutter  as  of  a  bird  imprisoned 
in  his  stomach.  It  was  an  unfamiliar  sensation. 
The  flutter  ceased,  and  he  experienced  a  shamed  in- 
ward feeling,  like  a  blushing  of  the  bowels.  Stand- 
ing just  outside  the  main  entrance  of  the  Hall,  he 
looked  eagerly  about:  face  after  face  passed,  but 
never  the  girl's.  Yet  the  gallery  people  went  this 
way:  he  had  noticed  the  lank  consumptive,  looking 
sourer  than  ever,  and  she  had  been  his  neighbour. 
Perhaps  she  had  found  another  way.  That  would 
be  like  her,  to  find  another  way;  that  was,  no  doubt, 
what  she  was  always  doing.  Edward  shot  a  last 
searching  glance  over  the  crowd,  then  hurried  off 


rhe  Buffoon  149 

to  discover  another  exit.  He  walked  round  the 
building:  there  were  two  other  doors,  but  both  of 
them  shut.  Perhaps  they  had  opened  for  her,  just 
for  a  moment !  He  found  himself  back  at  the  main 
entrance.  The  crowd  was  passing  more  slowly  now : 
evidently  not  many  were  left.  No;  he  could  see 
them  all,  and  there  at  the  end  was  Welsh,  waving 
his  hat. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

TIME  began  to  pass  slowly  for  Edward.  He 
said  nothing  to  Welsh  of  the  gallery  girl, 
but  he  questioned  him  on  his  opinions  about 
the  passion  of  love.  Welsh  repHed  that  he  had 
never  been  in  love,  that  he  did  not  think  he  ever 
could  be.  "  I  am  without  love,"  he  said,  "  as  I  am 
without  tears.  I  cannot  weep :  I  cannot  adore.  I 
am  incapable  of  true  sorrow,  and  of  true  religion." 
He  warmed  at  this  point,  comparing  himself 
with  Turgenev's  Dmitri  Rudin.  "  A  man  without 
heart!"  he  exclaimed.  "Can  you  conceive  it? 
That  is  my  destiny.  But  you,  my  friend,  you  are  a 
lover.  It  is  your  fate  to  love.  What  a  lover  you 
would  make!  You  would  surrender,  how  slowly! 
but  you  would  surrender  altogether.  Your  devotion 
would  be  extraordinary.  Yes,  I  have  never  met  any 
one  so  capable  of  the  grand  passion  as  you.  I  wish 
I  could  see  you  In  love." 

"  We're  quits,"  said  Edward.  "  I  was  wishing 
last  night  that  I  could  see  you  drunk."  But  Welsh's 
words  had  their  influence,  at  that  time. 

Early  in  the  morning  had  come  a  telegram  from 
Tryers,  asking  Welsh  to  send  certain  architectural 
instruments  from  his  office  to  an  address  in  Paris. 
Tryers  was  evidently  on  his  way  over,  the  telegram 
had  been  handed  in  the  night  before  at  Newhaven. 

150 


rhe  Buffoon  151 

"  We  cannot  escape  from  him,"  said  Welsh  wearily, 
dropping  the  yellow  envelope  on  the  floor.  He  was 
struck  suddenly  by  the  formidable  nature  of  the  task 
imposed.  "I  can't  do  it!"  he  cried.  "I  simply 
can't  do  it!  How  can  I  ever  make  up  a  parcel  and 
send  it  to  Paris?  It  is  most  annoying  of  Reggie. 
He  knows  quite  well  how  agitating  this  kind  of  thing 
is  to  me  —  always.  It  always  is.  He  did  it  all  on 
purpose,  I'm  sure  he  did," 

"  Perhaps,"  suggested  Edward,  "  he  simply 
wanted  us  to  know  that  he  was  quite  happily  off  for 
Paris." 

"  If  only,"  Welsh  went  on,  "  I  could  ignore  that 
telegram.  But  I  can't.  He  knows  I  can't.  I  am 
incapable  of  that  kind  of  unscrupulousness.  It  is 
what  I  envy  most  of  all  in  other  people.  Now  you, 
I  suppose,  could  throw  that  telegram  away  and  never 
think  of  it  again.  How  I  wish  I  could  do  that! 
But  I  should  be  worried  over  those  instruments  all 
day.     They  would  torment  me!  " 

Edward  rose.  "  Come  with  me  to  the  office,"  he 
said.  "  A  walk  to  Kensington  won't  be  disagree- 
able.    I  undertake  to  get  the  parcel  off." 

Welsh  was  overcome  with  his  usual  gratitude. 
Again  Edward  stood  forth  a  master.  But  the  lec- 
turer, during  the  full  length  of  their  walk  to  the  office, 
was  far  from  being  really  reassured.  Nothing  could 
take  his  mind  off  those  instruments  and  the  appall- 
ing difficulties  surrounding  them.  Suppose  they 
could  not  be  found?     Suppose  the  woman  who  had 


152  The  Buffoon 

the  office  key  should  be  out?  What  If  they  could  not 
turn  the  lock  with  the  key?  "  I  find  it  extremely 
difficult  sometimes  to  turn  keys  in  locks,"  Welsh  com- 
plained. Then  should  they  register  the  parcel? 
Should  they  insure  it?  And  if  so,  for  how  much? 
Should  they  send  it  by  special  delivery?  There  was 
a  special  delivery  system  in  America,  but  Welsh  was 
not  sure  if  one  existed  in  England.  It  was  all  most 
baffling,  most  difficult.  Impossible,  he  thought,  to 
carry  through  everything  successfully,  when  there 
was  so  much  of  it.  Again  he  reverted  to  his  convic- 
tion that  this  was  one  of  Tryers'  malevolent  tricks. 
What  could  Reggie  want  with  his  instruments  in 
Paris?  In  Paris!  It  was  pleasure  and  nothing  else 
that  took  him  there.  Absurd  to  suppose  that  he 
wanted  to  take  measurements  in  the  Louvre  or  the 
Madeleine!  Was  Edward  sure  he  could  make  up 
that  parcel  safely,  really  safely? 

Edward  meant  to  take  the  instruments  round  to 
one  of  the  smaller  shops,  and  have  them  put  into  a 
parcel  there,  but  he  refrained  from  telling  Welsh  of 
his  intention.  There  would  certainly  have  been  an 
assault  of  fresh  fears.  And  after  all  they  found  on 
arrival  that  the  woman  who  kept  Tryers'  key  had 
a  more  recent  telegram,  sent  from  Dieppe.  In  it 
Tryers  had  told  her  to  say  that  the  instruments  were 
not  required.  "  Just  as  I  thought,"  cried  Welsh, 
"  he  did  it  on  purpose !  It  was  all  a  trick."  But  he 
hugged  his  relief  visibly. 

"  I    was    right,    I    think,"    Edward    remarked. 


The  Buffoon  153 

"  Tryers  wanted  to  show  us  that  he  was  in  for  a  gay 
time.  We  might  go  to  London.  No  matter.  He 
would  cavoort  to  Paris,  and  do  us  in  the  eye." 

"  Oh,  really.  You  don't  say  so.  How  extraor- 
dinary. That  is  most  interesting."  Edward  con- 
jectured that  Welsh  always  replied  in  this  way  when 
he  was  paying  no  attention.  He  had  perhaps  ac- 
quired the  habit  in  self-defence,  from  years  of  ex- 
perience of  voluble  ladies  who  "  went  for "  him 
when  he  was  tired  from  lecturing.  "  How  extraor- 
dinary," he  repeated. 

They  walked  back  slowly  and  in  silence  down  Ken- 
sington High  Street.  Welsh  had  suddenly  become 
preoccupied.  He  grimaced  as  he  walked ;  passers-by 
stared  at  him.  The  sun  shone  encouragingly  and  re- 
minded Edward  that  a  bottle  of  ale  was  pleasant. 
In  the  middle  of  a  walk  on  a  sunny  morning  what 
could  be  more  to  the  point  than  a  bottle  of  ale  ?  He 
would  bring  Welsh's  mind  to  the  idea. 

"  I  was  once  at  the  Rose  and  Crown,"  he  broke 
the  silence.  "  At  Wimbledon.  Swinburne  came  in, 
and  they  brought  him  a  bottle  of  ale.  He  poured 
it  out  very  slowly  and  carefully  and  held  it  up  to  catch 
the  sunlight.  The  colour  was  beautiful.  He  sat 
admiring  the  colour  and  moving  the  glass  here  and 
there  to  catch  different  effects  of  light.  He  gave 
little  grunts  of  pleasure  all  the  while.  The  sun  is 
shining  now,  and  I  want  to  drink  ale." 

"  Drink  ale?"  Welsh  waved  his  hand  vaguely. 
"  Can  you  do  that  here?  " 


154  The  Buffoon 

"  Certainly.  There  is  a  place  on  the  other  side 
of  the  street.  A  very  proper  place  to  drink  ale. 
Come  along." 

Welsh  followed,  rather  bewildered.  "  Did  you 
really  see  Swinburne?  What  did  he  talk  about? 
Did  you  get  him  to  recite  any  of  his  poems? 

"  '  O  daughters  of  dreams  and  of  stories, 
That  life  is  not  wearied  of  yet, 
Faustine,  Fragoletta,  Dolores  — '  " 

Edward  could  have  wished  that  Welsh  had  dis- 
carded his  silent  abstraction  rather  more  discreetly. 
The  lecturer  recited  the  lines  in  a  loud  voice,  with 
gestures,  pronouncing  the  names  with  a  relish  that 
lingered  on  every  syllable ;  and  they  were  in  the  very 
middle  of  the  crowded  street. 

"Look  out!"  cried  Edward.  "I  see  a  police- 
man."    Welsh  was  silent  at  once. 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,"  Edward  went  on,  "  the 
only  remark  that  Swinburne  addressed  to  me  was 
'  Much  obliged.'  He  had  difficulty  in  getting  on  his 
overcoat,  and  I  helped  him." 

Edward  delighted  in  his  ale,  but  Welsh  was  pre- 
vented by  his  unfortunate  stomach  from  touching  a 
drop.  The  sight  of  a  telephone  reminded  Edward 
of  their  project  for  the  following  evening. 

"  Have  you  telephoned  to  Raoul  Root?  "  he  asked 
idly. 

Welsh  scrambled  to  his  feet.  "  No.  Of  course 
I  must  telephone.     I  learnt  how  to  telephone  in 


The  Buffoon  155 

America,"  he  added  with  pride.  "  And  Root  is  al- 
ways in  in  the  morning.  This  is  quite  the  right 
time."     He  made  his  way  to  the  instrument. 

Edward  half  regretted  that  he  had  raised  the  sub- 
ject. Since  last  night  he  had  lost  interest  in  the  idea 
of  Raoul  Root  and  les  jeunes.  Why  should  he  go 
and  mix  up  with  a  crew  of  poseurs?  He  knew  be- 
forehand just  the  kind  of  pseudo-originality  that 
they  made  a  cult  of.  This  Eunice  Dinwiddie,  too, 
she  was  probably  very  dull.  One  out  of  the  hun- 
dreds and  thousands  of  good-looking  American  girls 
who  take  up  with  art  for  the  hackneyed  ends  of  sex. 
And  then  Raoul  Root,  the  smart  Yankee  who  ran 
the  show!  It  was  really  waste  of  time.  Why 
hadn't  he  let  It  drop  ?  Welsh  would  probably  have 
forgotten  all  about  it.  One  great  advantage  about 
Welsh  — 

Meanwhile  the  lecturer's  voice  at  the  telephone 
could  be  heard  in  the  furthest  alcove  of  the  bar-room. 
It  was  as  though  he  talked  across  an  abyss. 

"  I  want  —  to  speak  —  to  Mr.  Raoul  Root ! 
Yes!  Mr.  Root!  —  To-morrow  night!  —  Nine 
o'clock?  Yes!  —  I  am  bringing  a  friend!  —  A 
friend!  —  Mr.  Edward  Raynes!  —  Oh?  Yes,  I 
know  where  it  is !  —  Down  Street !     Oh  yes !  " 

He  came  back  radiant.  "  See  what  I  can  do !  " 
he  conveyed.  "  Splendid !  "  he  actually  said. 
"  They'll  all  be  there,  because  the  meeting's  at  Mrs. 
van  Spless's.  She  has  the  best  house,  the  best  food, 
and  the  best  drink.     Raoul  Root  is  sure  to  take  any 


156  The  Buffoon 

number  of  liqueurs.  When  he's  drunk,  he's  ever  so 
much  more  amusing.  Oh,  he'll  be  at  his  very  best ! 
Then  the  Divinity  —  she  will  certainly  be  there- 
She  is  Mrs.  van  Spless's  intimate  friend.  Oh,  do 
you  know,  the  Divinity  actually  came  to  my  lecture 
last  night.  I  never  told  you.  I  was  amazed,  sim- 
ply amazed.  Yes,  she  was  there  in  a  corner  of  the 
gallery." 

Edward  thrilled  and  grew  cold;  then  he  felt  his 
blood. 

"  Oh,  indeed,"  he  replied,  keeping  guard.  "  I 
thought  you  said  she  was  quite  sure  not  to  be 
there." 

"  But  she  was ! "  Welsh  spoke  triumphantly. 
"  She  amazingly  was !  " 

"  Don't  talk  like  Henry  James,"  Edward  diverted 
the  issue.  "  Let's  hold  all  that  in  reserve  for  to- 
morrow night." 

"  Oh,  they  patronise  Henry  James."  Welsh  was 
easily  drawn  off.  "  You  wait  and  see  how  they  talk 
of  him." 

Edward  was  silent.  He  finished  his  ale  with  what 
was  for  him  precipitancy.  His  restlessness,  checked 
for  a  time,  was  now  almost  intolerably  aggravated. 
How  could  he  wait  till  to-morrow  evening?  Cer- 
tainly he  couldn't  drift  about  till  then  with  Welsh. 
He  would  much  rather  be  alone.  Or  he  might  hunt 
up  some  of  the  men  at  his  club  and  gamble  with  them. 
But  he  wanted  to  be  fresh  for  to-morrow.  A  long 
walk,  perhaps.     Yes,  that  would  be  better.     He 


rhe  Buffoon  157 

would  take  a  train  Into  the  country,  and  then  he 
would  walk. 

Welsh  played  into  his  hands.  "  I  think,"  he  said, 
"  I  will  go  and  see  WiUie  O'Flaherty.  I  haven't 
heard  from  him  for  weeks.  He  may  be  annoyed 
with  me.  I  should  like  to  go  and  propitiate  him. 
He  lives  in  Chiswick,  and  you  can  get  a  'bus  straight 
from  here.     Will  you  come  ?  " 

"  Not  to-day.  The  fact  is,  I  have  a  propitiation 
to  accomplish  on  my  own  account.  I  must  take  the 
train  to  Richmond." 

"To  Richmond?  Why  not  to  Twickenham? 
Our  greatest  living  poet  is  in  Twickenham.  He  is 
a  Polish  Jew,  eighty-three  years  old.  The  most 
magnificent  head  I've  ever  seen.  I'll  go  with  you. 
How  I  should  like  to  see  you  two  together !  What 
a  sensation!  —  Some  other  time?  —  Well,  yes,  I 
suppose  some  other  time  would  serve.  Under  the 
conditions  —  things  being  as  they  are  —  yes.  But 
you  must  meet  the  old  man.  We  call  him  '  the  old 
man.'  The  Rhadamanthus  of  the  circle !  —  Rich- 
mond! So  you  go  to  Richmond!  What  associa- 
tions docs  one  have  with  Richmond?  Georgian? 
Yes,  a  certain  Georgian  air.  Perhaps  a  certain  rem- 
iniscence of  Wattcau?  Streams,  trees,  delicate  fig- 
ures, elegance,  lace,  muslins,  indolence,  fetes  gal- 
antes  ^  fetes  champetres!  I  hope  Richmond  will 
please  you. — This  is  my  'bus.  Do  I  change  at 
Hammersmith?  I  wonder.  I  wish  I  knew.  How- 
ever — " 


158  The  Buffoon 

He  stepped  in  with  flamboyant  courage,  waving 
perilously  to  Edward,  unaware  of  the  conductor's 
remonstrances.  Edward  turned,  and  started  to 
walk  quickly  off  in  the  opposite  direction. 


CHAPTER  XK 

NO  doubt  of  it,  Edward  was  upset.  It  was  an 
unprecedented  day  for  him.  He  smoked 
about  twice  as  many  cigarettes  as  usual,  and 
he  often  lacked  patience  to  roll  them  himself.  His 
luncheon  hour  passed  unnoticed;  it  was  after  three 
o'clock  when  he  found  himself  opposite  one  of  the 
Richmond  hotels.  There  they  gave  him  some 
warmed  up  soup,  which  he  ate  without  tasting. 
Then  he  lit  a  cigarette,  although  he  had  not  smoked 
between  courses  since  Cambridge  days.  The  meat 
that  followed  he  played  with  for  awhile.  He  lit 
another  cigarette,  called  hastily  for  his  bill,  paid  it 
and  went  out.  Once  in  the  street  he  was  assailed 
by  violent  thirst.  He  made  for  another  hotel :  noth- 
ing could  have  persuaded  him  to  return  to  the  first; 
the  idea  of  the  place  filled  him  with  extreme  repug- 
nance. At  the  new  hotel  he  drank  ale  and  porter 
mixed  —  a  full  bottle  of  each  —  and  he  fell  asleep 
over  an  old  Sunday  paper  of  which  he  had  read  per- 
haps three  lines.  He  woke  with  a  touch  of  indiges- 
tion; he  swore  he  would  walk  at  least  five  miles  and 
do  that  five  miles  in  an  hour.  He  took  the  road  back 
to  London.  As  he  walked,  one  thought  after  an- 
other sprang  up  at  him  out  of  ambush,  as  worrying 

159 


160  The  Buffoon 

as  sportive  puppies  that  want  to  try  their  teeth. 

Why  did  he  behave  like  this?  Was  it  a  break- 
down of  his  whole  scheme?  What  did  he  suppose 
would  come  of  it?  Why  could  he  not  formulate  to 
himself  what  it  was  that  he  wanted?  How  stupid 
to  let  himself  strike  out  in  this  futile  way  in  the  dark! 
If  you  really  do  want  to  go  and  get  married,  you 
fool,  why  not  say  so  and  set  about  it?  But  remem- 
ber that  you  have  wanted  definitely  enough  not  to 
be  married  for  at  least  ten  years :  set  that  against  this 
vague  impulse  that  dates  from  yesterday  evening. — 
But  what  if  I'm  tired  of  being  a  bachelor?  —  Con- 
sider that  it  won't  take  very  long  for  you  to  be  much 
more  tired  of  being  married.  You  are  thirty-five, 
you  won't  like  changing  your  habits,  you  won't  like 
having  to  do  this  and  that  because  you're  a  mar- 
ried man.  Haven't  you  been  comfortable  and  at 
ease  as  you  were,  haven't  you  got  a  great  deal  out  of 
life,  haven't  you  been,  as  things  go,  happy?  Then 
why,  why  .  .  .? 

Then  again:  But  this  Is  something  new,  don't 
you  understand,  something  perfectly  new?  Think 
of  intimacy  with  that  girl,  the  intimacy  of  marriage ! 
Think  of  what  I  could  say  to  her,  of  what  she  might 
say  to  me.  What  new  lights,  what  revelations !  — 
Now  you  arc  talking  like  Jack  Welsh,  that  shows 
you're  off  your  balance.  —  It  is  true  all  the  same. 
You  wouldn't  surely  have  me  miss  this;  why,  it 
would  be  worth  any  sacrifice.  And  my  former  life 
hasn't  the  same  hold  over  me;  the  fact  is  I'm  begin- 


rhe  Buffoo?i  161 

ning  to  cease  to  react  to  it.  You  forget  that  I'm 
flexible,  I'm  not  a  slave  of  habit.  Hang  it  all,  I'm 
not  middle-aged  yet.  A  man's  young  till  he's  forty. 
Granted  that  I've  done  the  right  thing  in  staying 
single  till  now,  that  doesn't  mean  I  oughtn't  ever  to 
marry.  Look  at  the  kind  of  people  who  are  bache- 
lors late  in  life.  —  But  you  wouldn't  be  like  them.  — 
Perhaps  not,  but  it  would  be  dull,  I'm  sure  it  would 
be  dull.  One  stops  reacting  to  the  old  experiences, 
that's  why  things  get  dull. 

He  kept  repeating  this  to  himself.  The  idea  as- 
saulted his  brain  like  an  engine  of  siege.  After  a 
time  he  walked  on  without  reflecting  at  all.  Images 
of  the  girl  in  the  gallery  came  to  him  at  intervals: 
he  saw  vividly  the  arrangement  of  her  brown  hair 
over  her  forehead,  her  peculiar  pout,  her  underlip 
drawn  in,  the  poise  of  her  head,  her  veiled  glance, 
the  droop  of  her  body  that  seemed  so  well  to  express 
her  spirit  —  but  how  much  was  unexpressed! 
What  infinite  exploration  for  a  lover !  He  could  not 
be  deceived  there.  Former  reflections  began  again, 
and  took  their  course,  much  as  before. 

He  walked  for  more  than  an  hour.  At  about 
seven  o'clock  he  happened  on  a  taxi-cab  which  he 
took,  telling  the  man  to  drive  to  his  hotel.  When 
he  sat  down  he  was  tired,  and  soon  he  was  hungry 
as  well.  —  Scarcely  any  lunch,  and  no  tea :  a  com- 
bination of  abstinences  not  experienced  since  school 
days.  —  He  began  to  enjoy  the  drive.  Yes,  this 
rapid  motion  was  what  he  wanted.     He  lit  a  ciga- 


162  The  Buffoon 

rette.  How  delicious  Virginian  cigarettes  were 
when  you  had  had  nothing  to  eat  for  some  time ! 
Certainly  he  felt  more  like  himself  now.  He  deter- 
mined to  dine  carefully  at  the  Cafe  Boule.  He 
would  get  the  man  to  drive  there  first,  he  would 
order  his  dinner,  then  he  would  go  on  to  the  hotel, 
have  a  wash,  dress  perhaps,  —  was  he  too  hungry 
to  wait  for  dressing?  Well,  he  could  settle  that  later 
—  and  then  walk  or  drive  back  to  the  Cafe.  By  that 
time  his  dinner  would  be  beautifully  ready.  They 
knew  him  at  the  Cafe  Boule;  yes,  they  could  be 
trusted  there.  There  would  be  great  comfort  in  that 
dinner.  "  How  about  your  dinners  when  you  are 
married?  "     He  did  not  pursue  the  reflection. 

Edward  planned  his  meal.  Simple  material; 
soup,  sole,  steak,  asparagus,  peas,  potatoes,  fruit: 
but  their  treatment,  that  was  the  point  of  study. 
The  genius  of  Russia  should  be  invoked,  he  decided, 
for  the  soup,  that  of  France  for  the  sole,  and  the 
steak  should  be  worthy  of  Boston  or  New  York. 
Edward  had  never  taken  kindly  to  the  general  idea 
of  the  United  States,  but  it  seemed  that  they  under- 
stood steak  over  there.  For  the  arrangement  of 
the  vegetables  and  the  fruit  he  would  return  to 
Paris:  Paris  would  not  fail  him,  nor  would  Bor- 
deaux. Yes,  he  would  take  his  especial  Chateau;  no 
vintage  could  be  more  delicate,  more  true,  —  h'len 
elo'igne  de  toutes  les  f antes.  It  lacked  nothing,  that 
wine,  it  had  everything,  but  no  single  quality  in  ex- 
cess.    The  bouquet  alone  should  convince  any  one. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  dinner  was  ordered  with  the  smoothest 
expedition:  they  understood  perfectly,  and 
Edward,  with  a  sense  of  being  refreshed  al- 
ready, arrived  at  the  hotel.  He  went  straight  to  his 
bedroom.  As  he  turned  the  key  he  heard  through 
the  next  door  Welsh's  voice  raised  in  familiar  inef- 
fectual protest.      "  But  really,  my  dear  Reggie !  " 

So  Tryers  had  come  back.  But  that  was  no  rea- 
son why  Edward  should  not  wash  himself  and  change 
his  clothes.  He  would  dress,  he  decided.  His 
dressing  would  give  just  the  right  interval  for  the 
preparation  of  his  dinner.  It  would  be  annoying  to 
be  kept  waiting.  He  was  ready  in  less  than  half  an 
hour;  his  appetite  lent  him  more  despatch  than  usual. 
Surprising,  how  calm  and  normal  he  was  now! 

Should  he  go  to  the  Cafe  at  once  without  troubling 
about  Tryers  and  Welsh?  They  were  still  talking. 
It  was  Tryers'  voice  that  was  raised  now.  Excited, 
evidently.  Well,  he  might  as  well  go  in.  But  only 
for  five  minutes.     The  soup  must  be  kept  in  mind. 

He  found  Welsh  sprawling  in  a  chair,  and  Tryers 
stepping  hither  and  thither  nimbly  about  the  room. 
Welsh  was  looking  on  as  though  at  the  antics  of  an 
organ-grinder's  monkey. 

163 


164  The  Buffoon 

"  You  simply  can't  understand !  "  cried  Tryers 
with  virulent  impatience.  "  Of  course  you  never 
will  understand !  "  He  turned  to  Edward.  "  Ah," 
he  said  gravely,  "  I'm  glad  you  have  come." 

"  Only  for  five  minutes.  I  have  to  go  and  dine 
almost  at  once." 

"  I'll  come  with  you !  "  Tryers  was  eager.  "  I 
want  dinner." 

"  Sorry.     I'm  invited  to  dinner." 

Edward  lied  with  the  aplomb  usual  to  him  when 
his  comfort  was  in  hazard.  Tryers'  face  fell. 
Welsh  was  still  watching  as  though  his  brother-in- 
law  were  a  performer. 

"  Tell  me  quickly,"  Edward  went  on.  "  What 
have  you  been  up  to  ?  Why  this  trip  over  to  Dieppe 
and  then  back  again  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye?  " 

Tryers  looked  a  little  disconcerted:  Welsh's 
eyes  twinkled.  There  was  a  pause.  Tryers  circled 
to  the  door,  and  then  turned  abruptly. 

"  I  don't  care."  He  drew  his  lips  tightly  to- 
gether. "  I  am  quite  prepared  for  ridicule.  What 
has  happened,"  he  continued  fiercely,  "  is  that  I  am 
changed.     My  whole  life  will  follow  another  plan, 

—  now." 

*'  He's  going  over  to  Australia  to  build  churches 

—  fancy  that!  "  Welsh  was  delighted.  "  He  was 
off  to  Paris  on  pleasure,  and  then  he  was  converted 
on  the  night-boat,  on  his  way  across!  Isn't  that  ex- 
citing, Mr.  Raynes?     What  do  you  think?  " 

Edward's  face  did  not  change.     "  My  dear  fel- 


The  Buffoon  165 

low,"  he  addressed  Tryers,  "  if  you  go  and  get  con- 
verted between  Newhaven  and  Dieppe,  what  will 
happen  to  you  on  the  way  to  Australia  ?  It's  an  aw- 
ful risk." 

Tryers  tapped  with  his  foot.  "  Very  well."  He 
spoke  with  forced  calm.  "Very  well.  I  did  not  ex- 
pect sympathy.  I  did  expect  ridicule.  I  am  not  dis- 
appointed. But  events  will  prove  that  I  am  in  ear- 
nest." 

"  He  never  got  to  Paris,  you  see,"  Welsh  broke 
in.     "  So  that  does  seem  to  show  that — " 

"  Curse  you !  "  Tryers  exclaimed  furiously. 

"  Come,  come,"  said  Edward.  "  You  surprise 
me. 

*'  I  can't  help  it."  Tryers'  tone  now  indicated 
distress.  "  You  know  how  he  always  stirs  up  all 
that  Is  worst  in  me.  And  at  this  time !  —  Well,  I 
am  going.  I  shall  go  to  the  office,  and  sleep  there. 
Tm  tired  out.     Practically  no  sleep  last  night." 

"When  do  you  start  for  Australia?"  Edward 
asked. 

"  Impossible  to  say  yet."  Tryers  became  sud- 
denly quiet  and  businesslike.  "  I  must  see  my 
Australian  friend  first  and  talk  It  over.  He's  In 
London  now.  The  vicar  of  a  parish  in  Sydney. 
They  want  a  larger  church." 

"  Well."  Edward  straightened  his  tie  In  the  mir- 
ror. "  I  wish  you  luck.  You'll  enjoy  the  voyage, 
I  should  Imagine.  And  If  you  manage  to  leave  at 
the  right  time  you'll  get  two  summers  running.     De- 


166  7he  Buffoon 

llghtful.  I  shall  think  of  you  on  board  ship.  So- 
ciable people  like  you  are  in  their  element  there.  I 
can  see  you  getting  up  everything  —  the  sports, 
shuffle-board  tournaments,  pocket-golf,  concerts  and 
theatricals.  The  dances  are  the  only  things  that 
won't  be  in  your  line.  The  part  of  you  that  is  like 
George  Forrest  will  be  more  in  evidence  with  every 
day  of  the  voyage.  Couldn't  you  take  George  with 
you?  "  he  added  rather  maliciously.  "  He's  exactly 
the  kind  of  man  they  want  in  the  colonies." 

Tryers  looked  uncomfortable.  "  I  am  not  going 
to  Australia  for  the  sake  of  the  voyage,"  he  said 
with  his  foreshortened  assumption  of  dignity. 

"  You  can't  get  there  without  a  voyage,"  Edward 
rejoined  lightly.  "  You  may  as  well  make  the  most 
of  it.  But  I  must  go  to  my  dinner.  I  leave  you 
both  in  excellent  company.     Good-bye." 

"  Oh,  but  —  my  dear  friend."  Welsh  rose  in  his 
chair,  his  tone  was  remonstrant.  "  You've  missed 
everything.  You  must  hear  how  it  all  happened. 
The  star-lit  night,  the  throbbing  of  the  engines, 
the  quiet  deck  —  Reggie  all  alone  there  under  the 
stars,  with  the  dark  waters  round  him!  The  so- 
lemnity of  that !  Then  he  went  down  to  his  cabin  — 
no,  to  the  saloon,  wasn't  it,  Reggie?  —  and  then  — " 

"  Shut  up!  Will  you  shut  up?  "  Tryers  showed 
contorted  features. 

"  Quite  right."  Edward  stopped  with  his  hand 
on  the  door.  "  This  is  too  bad  of  you,  Welsh.  Un- 
dressing souls  in  public.     Perfectly  shameless.     Do 


The  Buffoon  167 


give  Tryers  something  to  eat,  and  try  and  behave 
properly.  Remember  he  never  got  as  far  as  Paris. 
Had  to  waste  his  ticket,  most  likely.  —  No,  not  a 
moment  longer.  My  friend  will  be  impatient. 
Good  night." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

EDWARD  learnt  from  Welsh  the  next  morn- 
ing that  Tryers  had  stayed  on  for  hours, 
and  might  be  expected  again  that  afternoon. 
They  were  safe  from  him  now;  he  would  of  course  be 
attending  an  Anglican  Mass,  but  after  lunch  there 
was  no  doubt  that  he  would  turn  up.  Edward  ex- 
pressed nonchalant  surprise. 

"  Why,"  he  asked,  "  does  he  always  turn  up?  It 
seems  you  give  him  pain,  not  pleasure." 

"  Well."  The  other  hesitated,  and  struck  a 
match  which  at  once  went  out.  It  was  the  third  he 
had  failed  to  light.  "  Well,  I  think  it  really  is  that 
he's  afraid  I  shall  get  too  much  pleasure  if  he  keeps 
away.  He  would  torture  himself  all  the  time  won- 
dering what  I  was  doing,  what  kind  of  enjoyment  I 
was  in  for.  So  if  he's  anywhere  near  me,  there's 
no  shaking  him  off." 

"  I  always  thought  him  feminine." 

"  Yes,  he  is.  I  tell  him  so.  Nothing  annoys  him 
more." 

"  He  won't  come  with  us  to-night,  will  he?  "  Ed- 
ward succeeded  in  speaking  indifferently. 

"  Oh,  no.  He  can't  endure  them.  He  says  they 
are  effeminate  and  affected.  He  classes  them  with 
the  aesthetes  of  the  'nineties.     They  are  all  the  same 

i68 


rite  Buffoon  169 


to  him.  He  certainly  won't  come.  He  has  only 
met  Root  once,  and  then  he  was  very  indignant. 
Said  the  man  was  an  impertinent  schoolboy,  and 
that  he'd  never  been  so  rudely  treated  in  his  life. 
Oh  yes,  he  recurred  to  Root  last  night.  I  told  him 
we  were  going.  He  said  —  you  know  that  way  he 
has  of  saying  things,  shooting  out  his  sharp  thin  chin 
as  if  it  were  the  tongue  of  a  snake  —  well,  he  said : 
'  Oh,  Raoul  Root.  A  very  evil  man.  I  would 
never  trust  a  man  of  his  type.'  He  asked  me  why  I 
wanted  to  drag  you  into  that  kind  of  set." 
"  I  hope  you  succeeded  in  propitiating  him." 
"  Oh  yes,  I  think  I  did,"  Welsh  replied  seriously. 
"  I  said  that  it  wasn't,  of  course,  Raoul  Root  that  I 
wanted  you  to  meet.  I  laid  great  stress  on  Eunice 
Dinwiddie,  reminded  him  that  she  was  the  only 
woman  he  had  ever  admired." 

"  He  admired  her!  "     Edward  was  involuntarily 
indignant. 

"  Oh  yes.  Spoke  with  unusual  warmth  of  her, 
quite  unusual  for  Reggie.  He  said  she  really  had 
some  artistic  feeling,  and  that  her  beauty  was  most 
uncommon.  I  think  he  called  her  a  Madonna;  very 
inappropriate,  but  the  kind  of  thing  he  would  say." 
"  Well.  What  did  he  say  to  my  meeting  her?  " 
"  He  was  ungracious.  Yes,  I  must  say  he  was 
rather  ungracious.  Altogether,  he  was  not  in  his 
best  mood  after  you  left.  I  took  him  out  to  have 
something  to  eat,  too.  But  that  didn't  improve  his 
temper.     He  was  irritable  and  querulous.     Ah  yes, 


170  The  Buffoon 

about  you  and  the  Divinity,  I  said,  you  know,  that  I 
quite  expected  you  to  capture  her." 

*'  Hardly  the  way  to  make  him  less  irritable." 
"  I  thought  it  would  interest  him.  I  thought  it 
rather  an  exciting  thing  to  say.  But  it  made  him 
angry.  He  said  you'd  never  get  her,  that  it  was 
one  of  my  mad  ideas.  He  was  annoyed,  too,  because 
the  meeting  is  to  be  at  Mrs.  van  Spless's.  My  going 
to  wealthy  houses  always  annoys  him.  He  thinks  I 
should  be  admitted  only  to  the  very  humblest  homes. 
And  he  was  galled  already,  you  see,  because  of  my 
having  the  power  to  bring  any  one  into  contact  with 
a  person  so  beautiful,  so  distinguished,  and  so  rich  as 
Eunice  Dinwiddie.  It  worries  him  horribly  that  you 
should  owe  this  to  me.  That  I  should  be  associated 
in  your  mind  with  the  Divinity  and  Mrs.  van  Spless's 
house,  it  is  really  torture  to  Reggie!  But  all  this 
makes  it  the  more  certain  that  he  won't  come.  It 
would  humiliate  him  intolerably  to  trail  in  to  Mrs. 
van  Spless's  as  my  friend." 

"  I  wish,"  said  Edward,  "  that  people  could  man- 
age to  get  converted  in  some  way  that  would  make 
a  difference  for  the  better  to  their  friends  and  ac- 
quaintances. It  seems  that  Tryers  will  be  converted 
into  nothing  but  an  unpleasant  and  virtuous  old  maid. 
No  one  will  be  the  happier  for  his  continence  and  his 
going  to  Mass.  The  fact  is,  his  vices  used  to  excuse 
him  for  a  great  deal  that  was  disagreeable;  they 
gave  him  scope,  he  worked  off  his  energy  by  yielding 
and  by  reaction.     He  was  to  some  extent  interesting 


The  Buffoon  Yl\ 

—  he  had  life.  His  unscrupulousness,  too,  there 
was  colour  in  that,  and  in  his  being  a  hermaphrodite 
type.  He  was  unlike  other  people,  and  that's  val- 
uable enough  in  England.  Of  course  he'll  continue 
to  be  unlike  other  people,  but  he'll  find  such  extremely 
unpleasant  outlets  for  his  energy  that  there'll  be  no 
bearing  with  him.  If  his  conversion  holds,  I  really 
cannot  keep  him  up  any  longer.  It  won't  be  worth 
it." 

Welsh  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  My  friend,  how  I  admire  your  courage !  Your 
determination!  Aren't  you  afraid  of  his  vindictive- 
ness?  Reggie  will  never  forgive  you.  He'll  dam- 
age you  if  he  possibly  can.  I  should  never  have  the 
courage  to  —  no,  I  couldn't!  " 

"  I  must  be  on  my  guard  against  this  vendetta." 
Edward  smiled.  "  My  word,  but  I'll  look  behind 
me  on  dark  nights  after  this.  The  gleam  of  a  stiletto 
will  never  escape  me." 

"  Ah,  you  don't  know."  Welsh  gesticulated  dra- 
matically. "  You  don't  know  what  he  is  capable  of. 
But  you  have  courage.  I  was  always  sure  of  that. 
You  can  carry  anything  off.  I  believe  you  will  win 
the  Divinity.  I  back  you  for  that  against  Reggie ! 
But,  good  heavens,  we  must  wear  evening  clothes 
to-night,  and  I  have  none  with  me.  I  must  go  out 
and  hire  some.  I  know  where  to  go.  Tottenham 
Court  Road.  You  ring  the  back  door  bell  on  Sun- 
days." He  picked  his  hat  from  the  floor,  clutched 
it,  and  was  gone  in  a  moment. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THEY  reached  Mrs.  van  Spless's  house  by  nine 
o'clock.  Welsh  was  extraordinary  in  his 
hired  evening  dress,  but  Edward  noted  that 
although  the  fit  was  execrable  he  looked  extremely 
well.  Aristocratic,  even.  He  might  have  been  a 
Russian  nobleman,  certainly  anything  but  an  English 
travelling  lecturer.  Why  he  looked  Russian,  Ed- 
ward could  not  explain  to  himself  at  once.  There 
was  something  Mongolian,  no  doubt,  in  his  high 
cheek-bones,  his  small  eyes,  that  sometimes  looked 
so  weary,  his  blunt  and  Ineffectual  features.  But 
there  was  more  in  it  than  that.  Welsh's  expression 
was  Russian,  and  particularly  Russian  at  that  mo- 
ment. It  was  the  degenerate  look  of  an  old  and 
earth-sodden  race :  it  signalled  emotional  vigour  both 
turbulent  and  morbid,  a  vigour  beyond  the  direction 
of  the  brain:  and  then,  again,  there  was  the  impres- 
sion of  a  spirit  prepared  for  abandonment,  for  a  self- 
exposure  seen  as  tragical  in  face  of  an  ultimate  in- 
evitable reserve  of  all  that  lay  low  down,  all  that 
was  really  essential,  really  significant.  This  man 
would  flourish  his  emotions  recklessly  in  pathetic  pa- 
rade, would  be  forever  bringing  all  that  he  could  to 
the  surface :  but  though  thus  getting  rid  of  what  he 

173 


rhe  Buffoon  173 

could,  he  was  unable,  and  knew  invariably,  in  the 
end,  that  he  would  be  always  unable,  to  get  rid  of 
what  oppressed  him.  That  secret  understanding  of 
life  in  profound  disillusion  —  it  was  this  that  would 
come  back  to  his  eyes,  and  come  back  again  for  all 
his  efforts. 

Was  Welsh  so  Russian  to-night  simply  because  he 
had  been  agitated  over  hiring  his  dress  clothes  ?  No 
doubt  that  had  something  to  do  with  it;  here  was 
the  proximate  cause,  but  Edward  knew  well  enough, 
really,  how  shallow  cynics  are  misled  by  proximate 
causes.  He  continued  to  be  occupied  with  his  re- 
flections on  Welsh's  soul:  he  walked  mechanically 
into  Mrs.  van  Spless's  hall,  he  stood  there  absently 
while  one  of  her  men  took  his  hat  and  cape  from 
him.  Then  he  suddenly  realised  that  he  was  about 
to  meet  Eunice  Dinwiddie,  and  wondered  at  himself 
for  thinking  of  her  so  little. 

Mrs.  van  Spless,  a  woman  in  the  forties,  with  a 
neat  finished  figure,  received  them  with  that  elaborate 
and  artificial  calm  so  laboriously  acquired  by  Ameri- 
can ladies  of  the  selected  circles.  The  nervous  ex- 
citement natural  to  her  race  was  betrayed  only  by 
her  eyes.  They  seemed  to  Edward  preternaturally 
bright  and  alert,  their  glances  were  restlessly  ubiqui- 
tous, darting  hither  and  thither  as  mice  do  over  dan- 
gerous ground.  She  seemed  to  be  seeing  everything 
at  once,  and  she  gave  the  impression  of  being  strictly 
withheld  from  anything  but  the  merest  surface  view 
of  what  she  saw.     She  held  herself  erect  in  a  well- 


174  rhe  Buffoon 

lessoned  way.  Her  dress,  of  course,  was  proof 
against  any  criticism,  designed  expressly  for  being 
proof  against  It.  Her  lace  and  her  jewels,  too,  they 
could  be  no  less,  they  could  be  no  more :  it  was  all  so 
exactly  right, —  It  was  like  Henry  James.  Edward 
understood  for  the  first  time  how  entirely  American 
Henry  James  was. 

The  lady  extended  an  object  that  showed  itself 
primarily  as  a  triumph  for  the  manicurist's  art,  and 
secondarily  as  a  hand.  Edward  bowed  low,  after 
Welsh's  example.  In  certain  American  social  cir- 
cles, he  remembered,  they  cultivated  eighteenth  cen- 
tury manners.  "  I  am  happy,  madam,"  he  mur- 
mured, "  I  am  most  happy." 

Mrs.  van  Spless's  greeting  disappointed  him.  He 
was  prepared  that  evening  for  strange  tones,  unusual 
colours  in  everything.  It  all  must,  he  felt,  at  least 
lend  Itself  to  an  exciting  interpretation.  Was  he 
being  influenced,  then,  by  Welsh? 

Of  the  lecturer  Mrs.  van  Spless  evidently  had 
some  opinion.  She  was  treating  him,  Edward  could 
see,  as  a  guest  of  distinction.  For  half  a  minute  she 
had  held  his  hand.  Probably  he  was  lionised  in 
America,  where  lecturers,  like  actors  in  England, 
grow  into  celebrities.  "  This  is  good  luck  for  us," 
she  was  saying.  "  We  all  thought  you  were  In  the 
country,  at  your  summer  home."  How  she  lingered 
on  the  word  "  home."  She  seemed  to  charge  it  with 
full  measure  of  domesticity.  Edward  remembered 
that  other  Americans  he  had  met  did  that,  with  the 


The  Buffoon  175 

same  peculiar  broadening  and  emphasising  of  the 
"  o."  They  always  said  "  home  "  when  they  could, 
instead  of  "  house." 

"  You  described  it  all  so  beautifully  in  one  of  your 
lectures,"  Mrs.  van  Spless  went  on.  "  Such  an  at- 
mosphere of  English  rural  peace  you  gave  us;  the 
garden,  the  lobelias,  the  dahlias,  and  the  geraniums. 
Oh,  Mr.  Welsh,  I  shall  never  forget  how  beautifully 
you  spoke  of  the  geraniums!  We  could  see  them, 
we  could  even  smell  them.  And  Mrs.  Welsh,  how 
is  she?  And  the  little  boy?  Has  he  still  his  toy 
gun?  You  remember  you  were  so  afraid  he  would 
have  an  accident.  And  the  little  dog?  Who  would 
worry  you  to  take  him  out  for  walks  when  you 
wanted  to  write,  but  you  hadn't  the  heart  to  refuse 
him.  You  see,  Mr.  Welsh,  what  a  good  pupil  I  am. 
I  remember  everything." 

She  went  on.  Welsh  gravely  appeared  to  listen, 
till  the  arrival  of  other  guests  released  him.  Ed- 
ward in  the  meantime  had  caught  sight  of  an  ac- 
quaintance of  his  in  the  crowded  room,  a  man  whom 
he  had  never  cultivated,  but  whom  he  was  always 
running  up  against,  in  theatres,  in  restaurants,  in 
clubs,  in  the  street;  in  fact,  anywhere.  It  had  al- 
ways been  said  of  Foxy  Fenton  that  there  was  no 
getting  out  of  his  way.  Edward  had  met  him  first 
at  Cambridge,  where  he  had  earned  his  nickname  of 
"Foxy."  The  man  was  a  born  intriguer;  he  had 
started  intriguing  at  his  private  school  and  had  never 
stopped  since.     He  was  also  an  inordinate  talker. 


176  The  Buffoon 

would  gossip  for  hours,  spoke  with  unqualified  posi- 
tlveness  on  every  subject,  and  could  tell  more  lies  In 
half  an  hour  than  most  men  In  a  life-time.  Edward 
had  a  certain  regard  for  him,  because  he  was  the 
most  thorough  adventurer  he  knew.  On  this  occa- 
sion the  first  thought  that  passed  through  his  mind 
on  seeing  Foxy  was  that  he  really  would  not  lend 
him,  this  time,  more  than  a  sovereign. 

"  Dear  fellow,"  Fenton  began  —  he  always  began 
"  Dear  fellow  " — "  and  who  would  have  thought  It? 
You  here  !  And  who  Is  your  friend?  "  Welsh  had 
been  left  behind,  captured  by  three  ladles.  "  Dis- 
tinguished looking  man,  but  how  amazingly  he  ties 
his  tie  —  upon  my  word !  Amusing  show  this.  Isn't 
It?"  He  rattled  on  In  his  Intimate  way.  "Too 
many  old  women,  though.  These  American  places 
are  always  packed  with  old  women.  You  know  that 
man  Root  ?  Why  doesn't  he  turn  up  ?  Queer  lot  of 
people  here.  Odd  fish,  between  ourselves,  eh? 
But  great  fun.  Oh,  great  fun.  Ella  van  Spless  has 
managed  to  knock  up  some  decent  connections.  Her 
elder  daughter  —  expect  you've  heard  —  just  mar- 
ried my  old  friend  Martlesham.  Happlsburgh's 
eldest  son,  you  know.  Good  stroke  of  business. 
She  really  got  in  through  her  cousins,  the  Honks. 
Extraordinary  names,  these  Americans  have."  He 
chuckled  perfunctorily  —  a  professional  chuckle. 
"  Homer  K.  Honk,  money  In  steel  rails.  Could  buy 
the  van  Splesses  up,  lock,  stock  and  barrel.  Oh  yes, 
and  still  have  millions.     Most  of  his  daughters  have 


The  Buffoon  111 

got  their  money's  worth.  Helen  P.  got  the  old 
duke,  old  Flintshire;  second  girl's  going  to  marry 
Lord  Arthur,  you  remember  Arthur  Brayle  —  what, 
don't  you  know  him?  thought  you  did,  he's  quite  in 
the  running  for  the  marquisate,  you  know,  brother 
most  unhkely  to  have  any  children.  Then  Honk's 
youngest  daughter,  —  Oenone,  she  is:  imagine  it, 
dear  fellow  —  Oenone  Honk!  She's  the  beauty  of 
the  family,  and  the  old  man's  worried  to  death  for 
fear  she'll  run  off  with  one  of  the  chauffeurs!  She 
won't  come  in  line  at  all.  I  tell  young  Mandeville 
he  really  ought  to  have  a  shot  for  her  —  good-look- 
ing fellow,  Mandeville,  the  best-looking  peer  about 
town  —  not  worth  a  red  cent,  though,  everything 
mortgaged,  must  marry  money.  —  Great  fun,  great 
fun."  He  chuckled  again.  "  Such  a  relief  seeing 
you  here,  Raynes.  These  women  are  too  awful. 
They  talk  your  head  off.  No  one  here  of  any  ac- 
count." Fenton  swept  the  room  with  a  contemptu- 
ous glance.  "  The  new  art,  and  all  that.  Outsid- 
ers, all  of  them.  Suppose  it  amuses  Ella  van  Spless. 
But  where  is  Root?  And  that  girl  —  Eileen  Dim- 
miny  — " 

"  Eunice  Dinwiddie." 

"  Oh  yes,  of  course,  of  course.  Extraordinary 
names.  Never  can  remember  them.  Good-looking 
girl,  got  some  money,  too.  Quite  in  a  small  way,  of 
course.  Between  ourselves,  I'm  not  disinclined  to 
cultivate  Eunice  Dinwiddie.  I  can't  fly  as  high  as 
the  Honks." 


178  The  Buffoon 

"  Damn  your  impudence,"  thought  Edward. 

"  I'm  here  on  business,  of  course."  Fenton  knew 
no  intermission.  "  They're  starting  a  new  paper, 
and  I  want  to  make  something  out  of  it.  They've 
got  people  to  pay,  you  see.  Shifty  lot,  these  Ameri- 
cans, though.  Shouldn't  wonder  if  I  never  saw  so 
much  as  a  single  fiver.  I'm  fearfully  hard  up,  of 
course,  always  am."  Edward  recognised  the  open- 
ing. "  Between  ourselves,  I'm  at  my  wits'  end. 
It's  awful,  this  business  of  money.  Lucky  dog  you 
are,  Raynes,  wish  I  could  get  some  legacies.  No 
one  ever  leaves  me  a  penny.  But  I'm  writing,  of 
course;  article  every  week  for  the  Gazette.  Bad 
pay,  though,  very  bad.  But  they're  giving  me  a  leg 
up  this  autumn.  One  of  their  best  men  is  leaving 
them,  and  I'm  taking  on  his  job.  I've  had  a  novel 
accepted  by  Rogers,  too  —  coming  out  at  Christmas. 
Quite  good  royalties.  Buy  a  copy,  won't  you  ?  By 
Jove,  old  man,  I  tell  you  what,  I'll  dedicate  it  to  you ! 
Splendid  idea !  '  Little  Fishes  '  is  the  title.  Quite 
light,  of  course,  quite  light,  but  the  sort  of  stuff  that 
ought  to  sell.  Oh  yes,  I  shall  be  doing  famously 
very  soon.  But  just  now  times  are  bad,  very  bad. 
At  my  wits'  end.  I  hate  to  worry  you,  dear  fellow, 
but  if  you  could,  just  for  a  couple  of  weeks,  do  me  the 
favour  of  a  tenner?  " 

"  No  one  can  refuse  you,  Fenton,"  said  Edward 
sweetly.  "  A  tenner,  I  take  it,  is  one  of  your  figures 
of  speech.     I  am  good  for  a  sovereign." 

"Thanks    awfully!"    Fenton    replied,    without 


rhe  Buffoon  179 

change  of  tone  or  expression.  "  So  good  of  you. 
I'll  send  you  a  cheque  in  a  fortnight.  Let's  come 
and  take  some  Portish  wine."  Edward  remembered 
this  as  a  facetious  turn  of  Cambridge  days..  "  I  in- 
sisted on  the  Portish.  We'll  drift  over  to  that  table. 
Drinks  here  not  half  bad.  Ella  van  Spless  gets  me 
to  choose  them ;  as  she  would  put  it  she  '  has  me 
choose  them.'  Queer  phrases  they  have,  these 
Americans,  eh?"  The  professional  chuckle  was 
again  brought  into  play. 

They  made  their  way  to  the  refreshment  table, 
Fenton  nodding  and  smiling  to  this  quarter  and  that. 
He  went  on  talking,  growing  neither  more  nor  less 
familiar,  always  on  the  same  level  of  amicable  and 
lively  chat.  "  Perfectly  dreadful  people,"  he  re- 
marked indifferently,  with  a  look  round. 

"  Tell  me,"  Edward  took  his  chance  for  a  word. 
"  About  this  girl  who  is  coming  here  to-night.  Is 
she  much  run  after?  " 

"  Who?  Eunice?  Oh  yes,  she  is  the  Dinwiddie. 
Quite  the  Dinwiddie.  Queens  it  in  this  set  —  undis- 
puted. That's  why  she's  bound  to  come  in  very  late. 
They  all  attend  on  her.  I  shall  pay  court,  of  course. 
I  must  be  in  with  her,  if  I'm  to  get  what  I  want  here. 
I  manage  her  pretty  well,  I  think.  It's  fairly  easy. 
When  once  you've  got  the  hang  of  their  kind  of 
talk." 

"  That's  just  what  I  want,"  said  Edward,  "  to  get 
the  hang.  Let's  listen."  He  slipped  a  sovereign 
deftly  into  Fenton's  palm.     "  These  two  ladies,"  he 


180  The  Buffoon 

lowered  his  voice,  "  do  you  think  they  have  the  hang? 
Anyhow,  I'm  afraid  that  so  long  as  we  are  here, 
drinking  the  Portish,  we  shall  be  able  to  listen  to  no- 
body else." 

The  ladies  in  question  seemed  certainly  bent  on 
making  themselves  heard  above  the  hubbub.  They 
were  both  sufficiently  American  without  opening 
their  mouths:  their  nationality,  when  they  talked, 
was  underscored  to  a  rude  excess. 

"But  isn't  he  just  too  charming?"  The  elder 
voice  was  scraping  at  highest  pitch.  "  And  think, 
my  dear,  when  he  was  only  five  years  old,  with  his 
pretty  golden  curls  all  around  his  shoulders,  he  said: 
*  Momma,  I'm  going  to  be  the  greatest  po-ut  that 
ever  lived! '  " 

'^  My,  how  sweet ! "  The  younger  woman 
showed  two  teeth  of  shining  gold.  "  His  hair  is 
surely  wonderful.  I  say  his  crowning  glow-ry  is 
his  hair." 

"  But  did  you  know,  my  dear,  did  you  know  that 
at  fifteen  years  of  age  he  simply  created  his  face?  " 

"Created  his — ?"  the  other  gasped.  "Cre- 
ated his  face !     You  don't  say !  " 

"  Yes.  By  massage.  They  say  his  nose  was 
rather  turnippy  then,  and  his  cheeks  real  fat,  but  he 
changed  it  all,  by  night  and  morning  massage.  Just 
fig-yoor  that  lovely  wonder-child  rubbing  away  night 
and  day,  with  an  Ovid  or  a  Virgil  propped  up  in 
front  of  him,  perhaps !  " 

"Why,  he's  here!"     The  younger  lady  gave  a 


rhe  Buffoon  181 


Zoo  Bird  House  scream.  Both  moved  hurriedly  off, 
overcome  for  the  moment  into  silence. 

"  They  haven't  the  hang,"  murmured  Edward, 
"  I'm  afraid  they  have  hardly  the  hang." 

Fenton  finished  his  Port.  "  So  Root's  turned 
up,"  he  said.  "  I  must  get  hold  of  him.  Fearful 
job,  getting  hold  of  Root  here.  —  Yes,  there  he  is, 
with  Ella  van  Spless." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

EDWARD  became  aware  of  a  hush  of  voices 
and  a  surging  to  and  fro  in  the  room.  A 
space  by  the  door  of  entrance  was  being 
cleared.  The  two  American  ladies  who  had  pressed 
forward  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment  were  ar- 
rested by  a  tall  pale  young  man  with  fair  hair  and 
gold-rimmed  pince-nez.  He  persuasively  piloted 
them  towards  the  wall.  There  was  a  general  draw- 
ing back  by  the  entrance,  a  general  massing  up  in 
other  parts  of  the  room.  From  a  room  beyond 
came  a  murmur  and  a  stir  that  gave  the  impression 
of  some  excitement  and  anticipation.  "  Rah-rah's 
turned  up."  Edward  heard  a  clipped  voice  behind 
him.     "  Good  old  buffer.     Nice  old  thing." 

Edward  observed  Raoul  Root's  beautiful  entrance 
in  the  mirror  at  his  end  of  the  room.  The  prophet 
had  dismissed  Mrs.  van  Spless  with  a  gracious  wave 
of  his  hand,  and  she  was  watching  him  in  still  ad- 
miration as  he  stood  poised  by  the  door,  waiting  the 
moment  for  most  effective  advance.  "  Certainly," 
Edward  thought,  "  he  understands  showing  off. 
That  calculated  insolence  of  his  is  very  well  done." 
"What  a  circus!"  Fenton  gurgled  at  Edward's 
elbow.     "  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  circus  ?     Look  at 

182 


The  Buffoon  183 

his  frilled  shirt,  and  his  velvet  jacket  and  his  little 
Vandyck  beard.  And  his  hair !  How  does  he  man- 
age to  get  it  to  stand  up  stiff  like  that?  " 

The  moment  arrived.  Raoul  Root  entered,  cast- 
ing glances  under  quizzically  twisted  eyebrows, 
glances  partly  humorous,  partly  tender,  partly  dis- 
paraging, for  his  intimates  and  disciples.  For  ene- 
mies and  strangers  he  had  looks  of  bored  vacuity. 
Edward  was  impressed  by  these  rapid  alternations. 
The  Prophet's  "  crowning  glory  "  stood  up  from  his 
white  forehead  very  crisp  and  shining;  his  fair  skin 
looked  unusually  soft,  really  milky.  Edward  found 
a  distinct  charm  in  his  slender  erectness,  "  but  he's 
cocky,"  he  thought,  "  spiritually  cocky,  to  the  last 
imaginable  degree." 

Welsh,  deserted  by  his  ladles  since  Root's  appear- 
ance, and  now  engaged  in  conversation  with  an  ema- 
ciated and  decrepit  old  gentleman,  very  unobtrusive, 
from  Boston  by  his  appearance,  was  the  first  person 
honoured  by  the  Prophet's  speech.  Root  stopped  in 
front  of  the  lecturer  and  raised  two  fingers. 

"  Qu'est-ce  que  c'est  que  Tart?  "  he  asked.  Welsh 
frowned  in  great  perplexity.  "  The  O'Malley  reads 
us  a  paper  to-night.  You'll  talk  about  it  after- 
wards." 

"About  what,  about  what?"  Welsh  put  his 
hand  to  his  forehead. 

"  About  art.     When  she's  finished." 

Root  readjusted  his  fingers,  smiled  benevolently 
on  Welsh  and  passed  on  into  the  arms  of  Fenton,  who 


184  The  Buffoon 

with  great  agility  had  made  his  way  to  intercept  him. 
Fenton  patted  i.he  Prophet's  shoulder. 

"  Dear  fellow,"  Edward  was  within  easy  range 
of  the  words,  "  a  word  with  you.  You  must  favour 
me  to-night,  you  really  must  for  a  moment."  Root's 
stare  did  not  in  the  least  disconcert  him.  "  We've 
all  come  specially  for  you,  and  I'm  the  most  uncon- 
scionably selfish  creature  here,  so  I  must  see  you  first, 
eh?"  He  chuckled,  just  as  usual.  "Come  with 
me  and  drink  a  liqueur.  I've  made  a  corner  for  you, 
such  a  beautiful  corner.  Tell  me  first  about  this 
Rogers  man  —  he's  publishing  me  in  the  autumn. 
Give  me  your  advice,  dear  fellow,  do." 

"  Oh,  Rogers."  Raoul  Root  was  won  —  the 
capture  recognized  by  all  spectators,  who  began,  with 
relieved  tension,  to  chatter  and  laugh  and  move 
about  as  before.  "  Oh,  Rogers.  Good  old  guy, 
Rogers.  One  of  my*  greatest  admirers.  You  tell 
him  you're  a  friend  of  mine.  He'll  do  anything  for 
you." 

Edward  moved  away  as  the  two  men  approached. 
He  felt  more  inclined  to  look  at  Root  than  to  listen 
to  him.  He  didn't,  somehow,  want  his  pose  and  his 
talk  together.  Besides,  Fenton  was  beginning  to 
wear  on  him.  Fenton  always  did;  Fenton,  it  seemed, 
wound  himself  up  every  morning  for  an  unvaried 
automatic  run. 

"  I'll  dedicate  it  to  you  I  And  now,  dear  fellow, 
about  this  little  venture  of  ours  —  the  new  paper. 


The  Buffoon  185 

You  know,  I  fancy  our  good  Sir  John  will  — "  Ed- 
ward heard  as  he  passed  out  of  earshot  into  the  next 
room. 

He  kept  Root  in  sight.  The  Prophet  was  taking 
his  liqueur  with  ^  fine  grace;  his  white  thin  fingers 
showed  exquisitely  as  he  conducted  the  glass  to  his 
hps,  and  Edward  noticed  a  curious  ring  of,  it  seemed, 
Venetian  make,  with  a  topaz  that  flashed  when  Root 
turned  his  hand.  The  man  had  taken  pains  with  his 
part,  he  was  thorough,  as  a  good  man  of  business 
should  be :  all  this  was  to  be  commended. 

This  other  room  was  not  so  crowded.  The  peo- 
ple there  had  divided  themselves  into  several  little 
groups  of  threes  and  fours:  there  were  more  men 
than  women,  and  the  men  did  most  of  the  talking. 
Edward  decided  that  he  would  join  in  one  of  the  con- 
versations, he  would  have  another  shot  at  "  getting 
the  hang."  The  attack  must  be  made.  He  selected 
three  very  young  men  who  were  standing  talking 
near  a  window.  They  might  be,  he  reflected,  as 
well  as  any  others,  authentically  les  jeunes.  Their 
pseudo-debonair  gestures,  their  pseudo-light  laugh- 
ter, their  air  of  knowing  all  about  it,  of  being  em- 
phatically, entirely,  there,  —  these  things  gave  prom- 
ise. One  of  them  was  distinctly  good-looking,  with 
black  smooth  hair  and  large  remarkable  eyes.  Ed- 
ward liked  good-looking  young  people.  He  made 
his  way. 

"  I  wish  to  join  you,"  he  said. 


186  The  Buffoon 

There  was  a  slight  flutter.  One  of  the  three 
raised  his  eyebrows  slightly  and  turned  for  his  cue 
to  the  young  man  with  the  large  eyes. 

"  There  is  so  much,  you  see,"  Edward  went  on, 
"  that  I  want  to  know.  I  am  quite  —  quite,  you  un- 
derstand, uninitiated.  Tell  me  now,  to  begin  with, 
what  do  you  think  of  Mr.  Raoul  Root?  " 

The  handsome  young  man  laughed.  "  A  gentle 
modest  creature,"  he  replied.  "  One  of  the  most 
bashful  kind  creatures  who  ever  walked  this  earth. 
All  that  famous  arrogance  and  petulance  and  fierce- 
ness—  simply  a  pose.  A  wearisome  pose.  Rah- 
rah  is  modest  and  moral.  As  the  uncleanness  of  his 
language  increases  his  moral  sentiment  becomes  more 
and  more  marked.  You  should  read  my  article  on 
him  in  last  month's  Crash.  Good  stuff,  some  of 
it." 

"  I'll  read  it,"  said  Edward  excitedly.  "  Honest, 
I'll  read  it.  So  you  write  articles.  But  why  not 
poetry?  I  was  hoping  so  much  you  would  write 
poetry.  You  look,"  he  went  on  desperately,  "  as 
though  you  saw  many  beautiful  things." 

"  Poetry?  Of  course.  I'm  an  Imagist.  Read 
Rah-rah's  article  on  me.  Crash  of  the  month  be- 
fore last.  He's  the  only  person  bright  enough  to  ap- 
preciate us,  and  we're  the  only  people  bright  enough 
to  appreciate  him.  He's  written  the  greatest  poem 
of  the  century.  Life  hit  him,  and  he  registered  the 
punch.  Now  that  he's  a  Vorticist,  he  doesn't  do 
such  great  work." 


The  Buffoon  187 

"  Forgive  me,  but  what  is  a  Vorticist?  " 

"  Vorticism,"  the  young  man  rejoined  gravely,  "  is 
the  death  of  necrology  in  art:  kills  imitation  of  dead 
writers." 

"  Good  Lord !  "  cried  Edward,  "  I'm  a  literary 
necrophiliast !  What  would  Krafft-Ebing  make  of 
me?"  Delighted  by  his  indubitable  discovery  of 
Us  jeunes,  he  turned  to  one  of  the  other  youths. 
"  You  paint  amazing  pictures,"  he  declared.  "  Ideas 
of  no  other  century.  I  know.  Or  you  write  novels, 
Imagist  novels.  Or  Vorticist  Tragedies.  Tell  me 
your  dreams,"  he  continued  with  eager  impatience, 
"  each  one  of  you  in  turn,  tell  me  his  dreams." 

The  young  man  addressed  faced  Edward  some- 
what defiantly.  He  wore  a  small  Vandyck,  very  like 
Root's ;  he  had  bright  small  grey  eyes,  a  well  cut  de- 
termined chin,  but  a  negligible  nose.  His  figure  was 
turned  with  an  almost  French  elegance.  One  was 
evidently  meant  to  associate  him  with  the  newest 
phases  of  the  Latin  Quarter. 

"Novels?"  Edward  recognised  the  clipped 
voice,  which  took  on  now  a  tone  of  surprised  resent- 
ment, as  though  novels  had  become  extinct  ages  ago, 
"  It's  a  bore  to  read  a  novel.  And  we  only  want 
tragedy  if  it  can  clench  its  side-muscles  like  hands 
on  its  belly,  and  bring  to  the  surface  a  laugh  like  a 
bomb.  Not  I  run  Crash.  We've  just  given  Rah- 
rah  the  chuck.  For  prose,  at  any  rate.  His  prose 
is  —  Ma  foil"  He  flicked  his  fingers.  "  C'est  a 
vomir!     We  shall  take  verse  of  his  now  and  again. 


188  The  Buffoon 

though.  But  Rah-rah's  prime  is  over.  He's  going 
off  horridly,  can't  find  himself  any  more." 

"  Mr.  Cramer!  "  Edward  heard  a  female  voice, 
agitated  and  beseeching,  behind  him.  "  If  you 
would  only  talk  to  me,  Mr.  Cramer!  " 

The  handsome  young  man  turned,  and  Edward 
withdrew,  giving  place  to  a  spare,  rather  angular 
girl,  with  straight  sandy  hair  and  an  anaemic  com- 
plexion. "  I'm  in  such  trouble  I  "  she  communicated 
in  low  stricken  tones.  "  I  misquoted  some  of  his 
lines  in  a  review  yesterday  —  some  of  his  beautiful 
lines.  If  he  should  speak  harshly  to  me  here  I 
know  I  should  break  down.  Oh,  I  shouldn't  have 
come  —  but  I  felt  that  I  must  see  him.  I  must,  I  — " 
Her  pale  green  eyes,  the  eyes  of  a  fanatic,  were  elo- 
quent of  distress;  she  clasped  her  thin  hands  to- 
gether. 

Edward,  drawing  back  decently  out  of  hearing, 
discovered  himself  in  the  arms  of  Welsh,  who  looked 
most  harassed.  "What  am  I  to  do?"  he  cried. 
"  Root  commands  me  to  speak  after  this  paper.  I 
simply  cannot  talk  in  drawing-rooms,  and  to  people 
of  this  kind.  And  the  paper's  to  be  in  French  —  in 
French!  I  shan't  understand  a  word  of  it.  But 
there's  no  getting  at  Raoul  Root.  That  man  is  still 
talking  to  him  about  their  new  magazine,  and  he's 
drinking  endless  liqueurs.  And  he's  surrounded. 
Look  at  him!  The  most  preposterous  thing.  He 
stands  and  flourishes  his  glass :  the  man  goes  on  talk- 
ing —  you  see,  on  that  side.     Then  on  the  other  side 


The  Buffoon  189 

he  holds  court.  They  pass  in  a  long  line,  and  he 
throws  off  a  nod  or  an  eyebeam  or  a  word  to  each. 
Yes,  he  holds  court.  These  Americans  are  extraor- 
dinary.    They  have  an  Hebraic  lack  of  humour." 

"  A  good  many  English  here,  too,  aren't  there?  " 
Edward  turned  and  watched  the  scene,  finding  it 
very  much  as  Welsh  described. 

"English?  Yes,  but  the  Americans  run  the 
show.  I  suppose  Root  is  a  master  in  the  line  of  run- 
ning shows." 

"Who  is  that?"  Edward  lowered  his  voice. 
"  The  girl  talking  to  those  three  boys  by  that  win- 
dow?" 

"  Oh !  —  Ah,  Miss  Grieves.  She's  on  a  woman's 
paper.  A  most  unfortunate  individual.  She  has  a 
violent  infatuation  for  Root.  A  devastating  infatu- 
ation. It  strips  her  of  dignity  and  humour.  An 
idealistic  affair,  of  course. —  Ah  there  is  little  Mas- 
sington;  he's  Raoul  Root's  satellite-in-chief.  If  I 
can't  get  Root  I  must  get  him.  I'll  bring  him  to 
you.  A  cross  between  a  faun  and  a  walrus.  Root 
calls  him.  But  remember  to  behave  as  though  you 
thought  that  Root  were  the  satellite  and  Massington 
the  planet.     That  is  most  important." 

Welsh  was  gone,  and  during  his  absence  Edward 
attended  to  the  conversation  round  about.  He  re- 
membered what  Welsh  had  told  him  of  the  studied 
smartness  of  this  set,  of  their  way  of  keeping,  at  all 
costs,  the  ball  in  motion.  Yes,  they  were  certainly 
doing  that,   they  caught  adroitly,   passed  on,   and 


190  The  Buffoon 

caught  again.  "  Sprightly,"  that  was  what  they 
were,  and  a  great  deal  too  sprightly  to  be  comfort- 
able. Edward,  as  he  listened,  grew  more  and  more 
convinced  that  in  the  background  of  all  this  free  and 
easy  chatter  was  the  haunting  fear  of  making  a  false 
step,  of  being  found  out.  And  the  effect  was,  on  the 
whole,  stilted,  an  effect  of  something  learnt  and  prac- 
tised. Welsh  was  right,  Welsh  was  a  good  judge 
outside  of  his  own  circle.  No  doubt  of  it,  these  peo- 
ple were  stilted,  they  lacked  humour. 

Welsh  soon  reappeared.  "  Mr.  Wilfrid  Mas- 
sington,"  he  introduced.  "  The  most  important  per- 
son of  all  for  you  to  meet." 

Edward  was  confronted  by  a  young  man  of  small 
stature  and  of  that  extreme  and  conscious  self-pos- 
session which  little  men  frequently  show.  Massing- 
ton  nodded,  on  the  introduction,  with  a  peculiar  de- 
liberate impertinence. 

"  It  seems  that  this  gentleman  is  worried."  He 
spoke  in  a  high-pitched  eclectic  tone,  waving  his  hand 
decoratively  towards  Welsh.  Edward  noticed  that 
he,  too,  wore  a  Venetian  ring  set  with  a  topaz. 
"  Positively  worried !  And  all  because  Rah-rah 
asked  him  to  speak.  Rah-rah  isn't  Gawd.  And 
he's  drunk  already.  He  always  gets  drunk  here. 
He  won't  notice,  bless  him,  who  speaks  and  who 
doesn't.  Why  don't  yoM  say  something,"  he  at- 
tacked Edward,  "  in  the  room  of  this  distracted 
gentleman?  " 


The  Buffoon  191 

"  I  will,"  Edward  rejoined  instantly.  "  I  cer- 
tainly will." 

"  Of  course,"  the  little  man  went  on,  "  I  might 
talk  myself.  I  have  to  write  up  the  damn  paper  any- 
way.    But — " 

"  Oh,  no."  Edward  was  decided.  "  I  will  cer- 
tainly speak." 

"  What  courage !  "  declared  Welsh.  "  I  always 
said  you  had  courage." 

Edward  was  observing  with  some  interest  that 
Massington's  nose  was  even  smaller  than  the  rest  of 
him  warranted. —  So  many  young  men  with  small 
noses!  Was  it,  he  wondered,  the  effect  of  the  at- 
mosphere? He  grew  a  shade  anxious,  and  was 
tempted  to  feel  his  own. 

"  Mr.  Massington,"  Edward  asked,  "  tell  me, 
how  did  you  succeed  in  making  Raoul  Root  what  he 
is?     What  were  your  methods?  " 

Even  Massington  was  a  little  taken  aback  by  this. 
He  stared  and  hesitated,  while  Welsh  gave  signs  of 
delight. 

"  Oh,  Raoul  Root."  The  young  man  replied  with 
a  laugh  that  was  just  perceptibly  uneasy.  "  The 
making  of  Raoul  Root!  My  ideas  about  Rah-rah 
are  strictly  for  the  public." 

*'  Miss  Grieves  seems  to  be  in  some  trouble," 
Welsh  observed.  "  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Massington, 
what  is  the  matter?  " 

"  Oh    yes,"    Massington    was    relieved    by    the 


192  The  Buffoon 

change  of  subject.  "  (^z.  ne  fut  qu'une  bagatelle. 
She  misquoted  Rah-rah.  Well,  he  can  bear  misquo- 
tation. But  I  made  it  all  right  with  the  poor  girl. 
I  said  that  I'd  spoken  to  Raoul.  I  told  her  that  he 
had  just  laughed  and  said  she  wouldn't  mind,  that 
she'd  rather  be  beaten  by  him  than  praised  by  an- 
other. Thought  I'd  better  tell  her  that,  so  that  she 
wouldn't  worry  over  it." 

Edward  observed  that  Root  had  at  last  left  the 
refreshment  table.  He  was  now  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  clustered  round  and  about  with 
eager  young  men  and  women,  all  of  them  flattered 
by  the  contact  with  his  regally  impressed  personality. 
The  Prophet's  voice  and  laughter  were  clearly  to  be 
distinguished  from  his  humming  environment.  Evi- 
dently all  was  well.  Root  had  been  drinking,  but  he 
knew  how  to  drink:  "  and  that,  too,"  Edward  con- 
sidered, "  is  something.  The  man  has  his  points." 
Mrs.  van  Spless,  with  two  youths  in  attendance,  was 
hovering  on  the  outskirts  of  the  throng  surrounding 
the  guest  of  honour.  She  seemed  expectant,  but  con- 
tent. 

"  Raoul,"  remarked  Massington,  giving  his  chin  a 
little  tilt,  "  Raoul  va  tres  bien.  He  is  a  baby,  mais, 
que  voulez-vous?  C'est  un  bebe  charmant.  What 
would  we  do,  without  him  to  amuse  us?  " 

"  When  are  they  going  to  read  the  paper?  "  asked 
Welsh.  Edward's  offer  to  speak  had  not  entirely 
quelled  his  anxiety. 

"  When  Eunice  turns  up,"   replied  Massington. 


The  Buffoon  193 

"  She'll  be  here  soon.  She  told  me  she  wouldn't  be 
later  than  usual."  He  tilted  his  chin  again,  and  in 
doing  so  caught  Root's  eye,  which  invited  him  to  join 
the  central  cluster.  "  I  leave  you  now,"  he  con- 
cluded, and  went. 

Edward  and  Welsh  interchanged  glances. 

"  You  see,"  said  Welsh,  "  how  it  goes.  You 
wouldn't  think,  would  you,  that  young  Massington 
runs  at  Root's  heels,  that  he  fetches  and  carries  for 
him,  and  waits  day  and  night  on  his  pleasure?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I'm  inclined  to  believe  that  that 
is  precisely  what  I  should  think." 

"You  would?  But  that  is  because  you  are  so 
wise.     That  is  because  your  forehead  is  so  massive." 

"  Exactly.  But  now  I  want  you  to  take  me  to  the 
next  room,  to  some  point  of  vantage  near  the  door, 
and  to  introduce  me  at  the  earliest  possible  moment 
to  Miss  Eunice  Dinwiddie,  before  she  is  irretriev- 
ably surrounded." 

"  Excellent.  I  will."  Welsh  rubbed  his  hands. 
"  But,  — "  he  hesitated,  again  he  looked  troubled. 
"  Can  I?  I  don't  know.  These  little  matters  are 
sometimes  so  very  difficult." 

"  Nonsense.  Perfectly  easy.  I  won't  make  your 
speech  for  you,  if  you  don't." 

"  You  have  me,  my  friend,  you  have  me.  I  sub- 
mit. I  yield  to  your  sweet  tyranny.  Your  com- 
mand shall  be  obeyed.     Your  will  be  done!  " 

As  they  went,  Edward's  thoughts  turned  once 
more  to  the  girl  of  the  gallery.     He  tried  to  analyse 


194  The  Buffoon 

his  will,  this  will  that  was  to  be  done,  he  tried  to 
trace  back  to  its  emotional  origin.  How  far  had 
Welsh  influenced  him?  He  had  started  him  on  this 
road,  of  course,  but  Edward  had  followed  the  point- 
ing finger  freely  and  willingly,  he  had  made  the  road 
his  own.  He  was  not  really  being  carried  away :  he 
knew  what  he  was  about.  Perhaps  he  was  being  car- 
ried away  by  the  idea  of  being  carried  away.  Was  it 
the  sense  of  a  masquerade  that  appealed  to  him? 
Yes,  he  felt  like  a  masquerader.  .  .  .  But  certainly 
he  had  somehow  or  other  acquired  a  surface  of  un- 
usual sensitiveness,  quite  distinct  from  his  normal 
field  of  consciousness,  a  surface  that  was  played 
upon  with  peculiar  effect  whenever  this  girl  came 
within  range.  When  he  had  heard  of  Tryers'  re- 
mark: "  He'll  never  win  her,"  when  Fenton  in  his 
insolent  man-of-the-world  way  had  indicated  Eunice 
as  a  possible  mark  of  his  own,  because  he  couldn't 
"  fly  as  high  as  the  Honks,"  Edward  had  been  moved 
genuinely,  and  strangely.  What  did  all  this  mean? 
Could  he  call  himself  free?  Were  his  eyes  really 
open?  Then  there  was  that  absurd  lunch  yesterday, 
and  that  long  walk :  he  had  to  admit  that  he  had  been 
rufiled,  disturbed.  He  had  reacted,  he  had  enjoyed 
an  admirable  dinner,  but  still  —  what  was  he  after? 
He  wished  he  knew.  How  much  more  difl[icult  it 
was  to  account  for  oneself  than  to  account  for  other 
people!  Well,  he  would  play  his  game,  he  would 
keep  his  head,  he  would  observe  himself. 


The  Buffoon  195 

"  She's  here !  "  cried  Welsh.  Edward  followed 
his  companion's  glance  towards  the  door.  Yes,  she 
was  there.  The  girl  of  the  gallery  was  certainly 
there. 


CHAPTER  XX 

EDWARD  was  determined  to  lose  nothing  of 
his  judgment:  he  clenched  it  with  an  effort. 
But  she  was  admirable,  none  the  less.  For 
this  occasion,  it  appeared,  she  had  decided  not  to  be 
enigmatic,  but  ingenuous.  The  effect  had  been,  he 
could  see,  just  as  delicately  calculated  as  the  effect  of 
the  night  before  last.  Her  pose  was  perfect. 
What  could  be  more  fascinating  than  that  studied 
artlessness  —  studied,  yes,  evidently,  but  still  so  un- 
assailably  managing  not  to  give  itself  away?  Raoul 
Root's  exhibition  was  crude  in  comparison,  an  under- 
lined thing,  grossly  managed.  Root  had  tried  to  do 
something  that  only  a  woman  could  do  perfectly.  A 
man  could  no  more  express  his  personality  by  the 
way  he  entered  a  drawing-room  than  a  woman  could 
express  hers  by  the  way  she  spoke  in  a  public  hall. 
One  should  regard  the  inhibitions  of  one's  sex. 
Root  lapsed,  he  became  inglorious. 

But  why  had  Edward  dreamt  of  insoluble  enigmas, 
hidden  deeps  and  all  that?  Confound  it,  it  was 
Welsh's  fault !  When  he  was  about,  one  always  did 
the  easiest  thing.  Welsh  was  demoralising.  Eu- 
nice's genius  lay,  of  course,  in  the  consistency  and  the 
logic  of  her  acting. 

196 


The  Buffoon  197 

"  What  is  thy  substance,  whereof  art  thou  made, 
That  millions  of  strange  shadows  on  thee  tend  ?  " 

Edward,  as  the  lines  came  to  him,  experienced  an 
unwitting  exaltation,  the  kind  of  exaltation  that  a 
sudden  breaking  out  of  music,  whether  good  or  bad, 
often  stirred  in  him.  Everything  was  strangely 
heightened,  —  the  value  of  the  present  scene,  the 
value  of  those  lines,  the  value  of  his  own  personality, 
the  value  of  the  girl.  How  had  she  brought  all  this 
about?  this  "  exaltation  in  fervour!  " 

The  mood  held,  but  at  the  same  time  annoyance 
broke  into  a  corner  of  Edward's  brain.  Why  was 
he  so  much  at  the  mercy  of  other  men's  phrases? 
Why  was  he  constrained  to  quote  Shakespeare  and 
Meredith  to  himself  at  a  moment  like  this?  These 
twentieth  century  young  men,  literary  Futurists  or 
Cubists  or  whatever  one  might  call  them,  were  they 
right  after  all?  Was  his  own  consciousness  hamp- 
ered and  stunted  by  literary  tradition?  Perhaps  he 
had  been  really  more  himself  in  his  light-blue  days, 
when  he  hardly  read  anything.  No,  but  then,  too, 
he  was  under  tradition  of  another  sort.  He  had 
never  been  himself;  some  people  might  think  he  had 
character,  really  he  had  no  character  at  all.  And 
now  he  was  being  fooled:  he  was  ridiculously  "  ex- 
alted in  fervour"  still.  What  nonsense  it  was! 
She  was  simply  a  good-looking  girl,  and  she  knew 
how  to  act.  But  at  any  rate  she  made  him  reflect. 
He  continued  to  look  at  her. 

She  attracted  him  more  strongly  than  before.     She 


198  The  Buffoon 

was  just  sufficiently  over-tall  for  her  epicene  figure, 
draped  in  flowing  grey,  to  give  a  charming  effect  of 
blown  mist.  Her  head,  with  its  little  smooth  crown 
and  childishly  ruffled  inexpert  roll  of  hair,  was  made 
to  be  held  tenderly  and  savagely  between  a  lover's 
hands.  Her  features  were  Greek,  they  suggested  a 
hamadryad;  only  one  flaw,  her  nose  was  insufficient. 
So  many  insufficient  noses!  Edward  wished  he 
knew  why. 

No  one  greeted  the  Divinity.  Her  whim  to  be  the 
first  to  speak  was  always  respected.  The  result  was 
an  effective  hush  into  which  her  rich  low  beautifully 
modulated  voice  might  break  like  a  note  from  an  or- 
gan. Edward  watched  her  greet  one  and  another 
with  a  sweet  and  sudden  childlike  caprice.  Only 
once  was  the  illusion  broken :  once  she  glanced  round, 
and  her  eyes  were  hard,  cold,  calculating,  as  for  the 
fraction  of  a  second  she  gauged  the  rapt  faces.  Ed- 
ward, though  repelled,  sympathised  with  her:  he 
could  appreciate  the  feminine  cynicism  with  which 
she  played  her  game. 

He  turned.  He  had  looked  long  enough.  He 
wanted  to  hold  himself  back,  to  parley  with  his 
judgment. —  Welsh  had  disappeared,— no,  there 
he  was  in  a  corner,  again  with  the  old  gentleman 
from  Boston.  Fenton  had  apparently  gone: 
Raoul  Root  was  in  the  other  room:  the  moment  was 
favourable.  Edward  was  glad  that  Welsh's  courage 
had  failed  for  the  introduction.  Better  to  meet  Eu- 
nice some  other  way,  or  better  perhaps  not  to  meet 


rhe  Buffoon  199 

her  at  all.  So  much  that  he  might  have  to  enter  in 
upon,  if  he  met  her  1 

He  was  startled  by  a  light  touch  on  his  arm.  The 
girl  herself  was  by  him.  She  bent  towards  him,  and 
seemed  to  be  quivering  almost  away.  Marvellous. 
"  Your  eyes  are  sad,"  she  said.  "  What  are  you 
seeking?  " 

Edward  was  unprepared.  He  paused.  Then 
in  a  long-drawn  sibilant  tone  he  replied:  "  I  was 
waiting  for  you."  It  sufficed.  They  stood  gazing, 
as  though  each  bathed  in  the  personality  of  the  other. 
Her  eyes  were  still,  fathomless,  seductive.  "  Ma- 
terial entertainment  here,"  Edward  reflected  grossly. 
He  had  his  hand  well  on  the  reins. 

He  was  beginning  to  feel  that  he  could  not  stand 
this  prolonged  gaze,  when  suddenly  she  lowed  at 
him:  "What  beautiful  thing  have  you  been  do- 
ing?" Welsh  had  warned  him  that  he  would  be 
asked  this,  and  he  had  amused  himself  by  preparing 
poetically  veiled  eroticisms  for  his  reply.  They 
would  not  do  now.  This  girl  was  not  innocent,  but 
she  was  Initiated  in  a  way  that  Edward  had  not  fore- 
seen. He  felt  that  much  might  rest  upon  his  power 
to  invent. 

"  Ah,"  he  whispered,  "  before  I  came  the  will  was 
upon  me  to  create.  Yet  I  was  withheld.  A  pres- 
ence,—  invisible  to  those  who  have  but  the  usual 
eye  — "  he  fixed  a  sightless  stare  upon  the  company, 
"  impalpable,  imponderable,  yet  clinging  and  cleav- 
ing  sans   ruth — "     Was  this   all   right?     He   re- 


200  The  Buffoon 

sumed  rapidly,  with  determination.  "  It  came  be- 
tween me  and  the  paper.  It  shrouded  the  pen  I 
would  have  grasped.  I  cried  aloud.  One  an- 
swered. And  in  my  little  chamber  there  was  the 
glint  of  iridescent  feathers.  That  which  withheld 
me  was  no  more,  and  I  created." 

Edward  stopped,  in  the  midst  of  a  solemn  hush. 
He  was,  of  course,  overheard,  as  he  had  meant  to 
be.  After  a  second  he  turned  his  gaze  full  upon  the 
girl.     "  You  understand  me,"  he  palpitated. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  "  yes,  I  do,"  giving  the  last 
word  almost  three  syllables.  "  Later,  come  to  me 
where  I  sit.  You  shall  tell  me  your  beautiful 
dreams." 

The  Divinity  glided  away.  She  had  shown  the 
mark  of  her  highest  favour.  People  stirred.  Ed- 
ward brought  his  blank  stare  again  into  play;  after 
Root's  manner  he  looked  at  this  face  and  that  as 
though  to  assure  himself  that  it  was  not  there.  He 
raised  his  hand  and  ruffled  his  hair  a  trifle:  then 
strode  towards  the  refreshment  table. 

"  I  say,  old  man."  Fenton  had  sprung  up  at  his 
elbow.  "  You  are  going  it  a  bit,  eh?  "  He  spoke 
with  a  touch  of  envy. 

"  Don't  speak  to  me,"  Edward  hissed.  "  Can't 
you  see  my  game  is  neither  to  hear  nor  to  speak  nor 
to  see  till  she's  ready  for  me  again?  " 

He  could  see  Eunice  talking  to  Mrs.  van  Spless, 
and  realising  that  he  was  in  her  view,  he  poured  out 
a  liqueur,  inventing  his  gestures  as  he  went  on.     He 


The  Buffoon  201 

was  careful  not  to  copy  Raoul  Root;  he  aimed  at 
a  demeanour  that  should  be  reverential  and  yet  in- 
fused by  inalienable  dignity.  A  recurring  sweep  of 
his  hands  upwards  went  for  an  indication  of  prayer. 
His  idea  was  to  be  absorbed  and  devotional,  a  sup- 
pliant, but  at  the  same  time  the  highest  of  high 
priests.  Luckily  he  only  very  nearly,  not  quite, 
broke  his  liqueur-glass. 

He  moved  a  few  steps  from  the  table  to  a  place 
of  comparative  isolation  by  a  mantelpiece,  against 
which  he  leaned,  throwing  his  body  into  a  sugges- 
tive mould. 

The  voice  of  Raoul  Root,  talking  apparently  to 
several  people  at  once,  broke  in  upon  him. 

"  I've  reached  a  point  of  consciousness  at  which  I 
can  enter  a  salon  unclothed.  .  .  .  Imagism  abhors 
Imagery.  We've  nothing  to  do  with  Image-making. 
Imagery  is  one  of  the  worn-out  decorations  that  we 
have  scrapped.  .  .  .  Must  speak  to  that  man 
Welsh.  Lucky  devil,  do  you  know  he  makes  five 
thousand  dollars  a  month  lecturing  in  America? 
Of  course  Welsh  belongs  to  a  better  and  nobler  age. 
He  thinks  of  himself  in  terms  of  Lucifer  son  of  the 
morning.  .  .  .  Yes,  a  beautiful  night.  And  the 
flower  of  the  English  aristocracy."  The  voice  was 
lowered  impressively.     "  The  very  flower." 

Edward  was  surprised.  Welsh's  income  so  much 
larger  than  his  own  —  how  remarkable  to  earn  a 
thousand  pounds  a  month,  and  yet  to  give  so  strong 
an  impression  of  a  hand-to-mouth  existence !     Some 


202  The  Buffoon 

genius  in  that,  perhaps, —  if  it  were  true.  And 
then  '*  the  flower  of  the  English  aristocracy."  Was 
Root  after  all  really  an  incorrigible  naif?  or  just  a 
bluffer?     If  that  was  bluff,  it  was  very  well  done. 

Edward  leaned  his  head  against  the  carved  post  of 
the  mantelpiece.  He  looked  at  Eunice.  She  and 
Mrs.  van  Spless  had  been  joined  by  another  woman, 
whose  back  was  turned  to  him.  She  was  short  and 
plump  and  seemed  to  be  excited.  Eunice  was  draw- 
ing back  from  her  in  shrinking  remonstrance,  with 
lips  parted  for  tremulous  speech.  Mrs.  van  Spless 
laid  one  hand  on  the  Divinity's  shoulder,  and  seemed 
to  be  saying  something  reassuring.  Then  she  ad- 
vanced and  addressed  the  company. 

"  Mrs.  O'Malley,"  she  said  in  a  clear  penetrating 
tone.  She  waited  for  the  chatter  to  die  down. 
"  Mrs.  O'Malley,"  she  repeated,  and  then,  after  a 
second  pause,  "  will  read  us  her  paper." 

"  Damn !  "  said  Root,  under  his  breath.  He  was 
at  Welsh's  elbow. 

Mrs.  O'Malley  stepped  forward  to  the  piano,  un- 
folded her  manuscript,  and  spread  it  out  deliberately 
before  her.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed,  her  eyes  very 
bright.  She  struck  Edward  as  a  vigorous,  amiable 
little  woman. 

"  Lard,"  she  enunciated  with  emphasis  in  a  pleas- 
ant brogue,  "  que'est-ce  que  c'est  que  lard?  " 

Eunice's  face  did  not  change,  but  Edward  caught 
a  flicker  of  laughter  in  her  eyes.  His  heart  jumped. 
She  might  be   reclaimed,   then?     If  she  could  be 


The  Buffoon  203 

taken  out  of  this  atmosphere,  away  from  all  this  ad- 
vertised conceit,  if  her  sex  could  be  satisfied,  if 
her  personality  could  be  given  the  right  kind  of 
scope.  .  .  .  Make  her  act,  make  her  write,  per- 
haps. How  would  she  be  with  a  child,  a  child  of 
her  own?  Edward  longed  to  extricate  her  from 
sentimentalities  and  waste,  as  he  looked.  She 
leaned  forward  in  her  chair,  her  chin  poised  upon 
one  attenuated  hand:  there  was  a  charming  disarray 
of  the  skirt  over  one  silken  extended  foot,  and  her 
gown  lapsed  with  a  sweet  half-consciousness  from 
her  throat.  "  Pose  21,"  Edward  reflected,  "  from 
*  Learn  from  the  Swan.'  "  He  looked  admiringly 
all  the  same,  and  meeting  his  gaze  the  girl  coloured. 
He  had  not  thought  she  would  do  that. 

Mrs.  O'Malley's  Irish-French  sounded  in  and  over 
his  thoughts  like  a  fine  wind.  Looking  round  the 
room  he  met  with  an  unexpected  revulsion.  What 
were  they  about,  these  people?  Advertising  them- 
selves like  a  patent  remedy.  Jealous  of  one  another 
all  the  time.  Lying  and  scheming  and  conniving 
against  one  another,  no  doubt.  Mauling  one  an- 
other's lives,  mixing  themselves  nauseously  up  and 
writhing  about  like  a  pack  of  gluey  worms.  Yet 
there  was  good  stuff,  there  ought  to  be  good  stuff, 
among  them.      Root,  for  instance,  if  only  .   .  . 

Towards  the  end  of  the  paper  the  girl  glanced 
meaningly  at  Edward,  and  he  stole  towards  her. 
As  he  stood  by  her  side,  he  heard  her  catch  her  breath 
and  sigh  gently.     She  produced  a  curious  reed-like 


204  The  Buffoon 

rustle.  As  soon  as  Mrs.  O'Malley  had  finished, 
Eunice  leaned  languidly  to  him,  her  lips  a  little  apart. 
He  was  startled  by  a  clear  light  tone.  "  Quickly ! 
Beat  Raoul.     Speak,  I  want  you  to." 

Her  face  was  impassive,  her  lips  had  not  moved. 
It  was  a  school-girl's  trick,  and  how  well  done !  Ed- 
ward felt  a  rush  of  delight;  he  leaped  to  the  piano. 

"  Madame,"  he  gasped.  "  Madame."  He 
bowed  low  to  the  little  woman,  then  turned  to  the 
company  with  a  royal  sweep  of  the  hand.  "  This 
wonderful  hour,"  he  exclaimed  in  a  tone  of  sup- 
pressed emotion.  There  was  a  sensation,  people  be- 
gan to  rustle  less. —  All  very  well,  but  how  was  he 
to  go  on?  It  was  an  hour  or  so  ago  that  he  had  un- 
dertaken to  speak,  he  should  have  prepared  some- 
thing, but  that  girl  had  put  everything  out  of  his 
head.  She  was  looking  at  him  now:  those  eyes  of 
artificial  innocence  were  upon  him.  If  a  woman  can 
make  a  fool  of  a  man  her  vanity  is  gratified.  No 
matter!  He  pulled  himself  together;  he  would  be 
a  match  for  her.  The  room  was  quiet  now.  His 
pause  had  been  of  exactly  the  right  length. 

"  This  hour," —  Edward's  tone  was  low,  vibrant 
and  restrained — "  this  hour  marks  an  epoch  in  the 
development  of  literature.  You,  chere  madame," 
he  inclined  his  head  towards  the  delighted  lady, 
"  you  have  the  flame,  the  inner  fire.  It  irradiates 
your  words, —  you  in  whose  admired  person," — 
Mrs.  O'Malley  clutched  Mrs.  van  Spless's  hand  — 
*'  I  have  to-night  witnessed  the  indissoluble  union  of 


The  Buffoon  205 

the  Celt  and  the  Gaul, —  the  Celt  mistress  of  poetry, 
the  Gaul  mistress  of  style.  Madame,  Ireland  has 
need  to  be  proud  of  you:  we,  your  American  and 
English  disciples,  we  have  need  to  be  proud  of  you. 
More,  we  are  grateful;  we  shall  be  grateful  al- 
ways." 

He  paused.  That  seemed  to  have  gone  down  all 
right,  the  women  were  evidently  impressed,  and  the 
intellectual  faint  smiles  of  the  chosen  ones  among 
the  men  seemed  to  indicate  a  regard  for  him  as  an 
ironist.  And  Eunice?  Good  Lord,  he  had  for- 
gotten Eunice.  What  kind  of  a  lover  was  he?  He 
was  a  rotten  lover,  that  was  what  he  was.  The 
girl  wore  a  drowsy  smile,  once  more  she  was  enig- 
matical: well,  he  might  have  expected  that.  Mean- 
while they  were  all  waiting  for  more,  and  he  had 
no  more  to  give  them.  He  knew  he  would  spoil  the 
effect  if  he  went  on. —  An  escape !  He  would  say 
it  all  over  again  in  French.  Few  of  them  would  be 
any  the  wiser,  and  those  few  would  suppose  him  to 
be  crowning  his  irony.  His  French  was  quite  un- 
trustworthy, but  still  — 

"  Comme  je  vous  ai  dit,  mesdames,  messieurs  — " 
He  determined  to  work  hard  what  accent  he  had,  he 
would  be  amazingly  nasal,  the  r's  would  rattle  in  his 
throat,  the  u's  would  be  sharp  and  pointed  like 
needles.  *'  Comme  je  vous  I'ai  dit,  cette  heure,  c'est 
une  heure  qui  marque  une  vraie  epoque  dans  le 
developpement  de  la  litterature  du  monde. — 
C'est  cette  dame  qui  vient  de  nous  adresser  qui 


206  The  Buffoon 


possede  sans  doute, —  ah,  mesdames,  messieurs,  il 
n'y  en  a  pas  qui  peut  jamais  s'en  douter  — "  (Yes, 
he  must  pad  a  bit,  no  matter  what  happened  to  his 
French;  he  couldn't  sit  down  just  yet.)  "II  n'y 
en  a  pas,  je  I'affirme,  qui  pourra  renier  que  Madame 
O'Malley,  ame  forte,  ame  genereuse,  ame  ecstatique, 
cherie  toujours  dans  son  coeur  la  flamme  sacree.  .  .  . 
Qu'est-ce  que  c'est  que  je  peux  vous  dire  ?  Apres  une 
telle  eloquence,  je  ne  peux  trouver  des  mots  qui 
peuvent  exprimer  ce  que  je  sens,  ce  que  nous  sentons 
tous.  Voila  une  chose,  une  chose  seule,  que  j'ose 
dire,  c'est  que  madame  a  uni  le  beau  style  fran- 
cais.  .  .  ."     All  over  again  in  French  he  said  it. 

Edward  bowed  to  the  applause  very  gravely.  He 
turned  to  take  up  once  more  his  station  by  the  mantel- 
piece, but  Mrs.  O'Malley  seized  his  hand,  and  drew 
him  sturdily  to  her. 

"  Young  man,"  she  said,  "  that's  foine  speaking. 
The  Gaul  and  the  Celt.  That's  what  I  loike  to  hear. 
And  now  you  must  write.  Yes,  you  must  just  sit 
down  and  write.  Miss  Dinwiddle,  I  want  this  good 
lad  to  write  an  article  in  our  first  number,  all  about 
the  Celt  and  the  Gaul  and  my  paper.  He  is  a  pote, 
he  understands  —  and  I  know  he'll  do  ut." 

Eunice  glanced  at  Edward :  she  was  evidently  sat- 
isfied. It  occurred  to  Edward  that  after  all  it  was 
she  who  had  been  sold,  and  not  Raoul  Root,  for 
Root  had  never  intended  to  speak  at  all.  Suppose 
that  were  to  come  out,  suppose  little  Massington 
were  to  give  it  away  that  he,  Edward,  had  offered 


The  Buffoon  207 

to  speak  earlier  in  the  evening?  What  a  jar  that 
would  be !  It  mustn't  happen.  Meanwhile  it  was 
pleasant  to  know  that  Eunice  was  deceived.  He 
would  often  deceive  her,  he  made  up  his  mind  to 
that.     She  was  made  to  cozen  and  to  be  cozened. 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  he  murmured  to  Mrs. 
O'Malley.  "  But  your  photograph  must  be  on  the 
same  page  with  my  article.  In  the  middle  of  the 
same  page." 

Mrs.  O'Malley's  enchantment  heightened,  visibly 
and  audibly.  She  sought  Edward's  hand  again. 
This  was,  he  decided,  precisely  the  right  moment  for 
him  to  clear  out.  "  Good-bye,"  he  said.  *'  I  must 
write  at  once.  I  cannot  wait.  Good-bye,  Miss 
Dinwiddie." 

Eunice  drooped.  She  slipped  a  lingering  tenuous 
hand  into  his,  she  shrank  away  from  him,  as  though 
his  brusque  adieu  had  been  a  blow.  "  How  analyse 
that?"  Edward  thought.  "Real  sensitiveness  in 
the  beginning,  perhaps:  then  it  had  become  a 
bad  habit  and  then  a  pretence.  Could  she  be 
cured?" 

"I  say,"  he  said  aloud,  "do  you  play  tennis? 
I'm  free  at  half  past  three  to-morrow.  You  know 
Mitchell's  Courts?" 

Eunice  straightened  herself.  "  All  right,"  she 
said.     "  I'll  be  there." 

She  spoke  directly,  boyishly,  like  an  American. 
No  "  Divinity  "  slush  here.  A  sudden  change,  per- 
haps, of  one  pose   for  another?     Well,   she  was 


208  The  Buffoon 

clever.  She  had  instantly  scented  his  antagonism 
and  its  cause. 

As  Edward  smiled  at  her,  she  drooped  again. 
"  You  must  come  back  with  me,"  she  said,  "  and  tell 
me  your  beautiful  dreams." 

But  now  Edward  caught  again  that  flicker  of 
laughter  in  her  eyes.  "  You  bet!  "  he  replied  gaily, 
and  left  her. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

IT  was  curious,  ran  Edward's  retrospect,  that 
what  had  really  interested  him  most  during 
the  evening  was  his  reflection  on  Welsh's  Rus- 
sian appearance.  That  kind  of  consideration,  after 
all,  was  what  appealed  to  him.  Other  things  were 
diverting,  they  fell  into  their  places,  they  were  noth- 
ing much.  Mrs.  van  Spless's  middle-aged  American 
mind, — *'  mentality,"  the  Americans  themselves 
would  call  it  —  Fenton's  very  English  chatter. 
Root's  posing,  and  the  posings  of  those  others, — 
all  that  was  unimportant.  And  it  was  badly  ad- 
justed, clumsily  put  together.  These  gatherings  were 
intolerable,  "  litery  gents "  shouldn't  be  collected 
like  that,  they  ought  to  leave  that  kind  of  thing  to 
usual  people.  Edward  grew  more  and  more  irri- 
tated; he  felt  tired,  his  thoughts  repeated  themselves, 
he  seemed  to  have  lost  poise.  He  decided  not  to  al- 
low himself  to  think  of  the  girl,  because  he  knew  that 
it  was  impossible  to  be  frank  with  himself  about  her, 
and  he  would  not  admit  that  he  knew  it.  This  irri- 
tated him  further. 

"  Well,  I  shan't  go  to  that  kind  of  entertainment 
again,"   he  said  to  Welsh,   when  they  had  nearly 

reached  their  hotel. 

209 


210  The  Buffoon 

"  But  you  were  splendid!  you  were  entirely  mag- 
nificent! I  said  you  would  triumph,  and  you  did 
triumph.  Your  French !  I  was  extraordinarily  im- 
pressed." 

Welsh  was  remarkable,  thought  Edward,  he  could 
be  exclamatory  no  matter  when.  The  panegyric 
continued  spasmodically  till  they  were  inside  the 
hotel  doors.  Edward  ordered  a  siphon  to  be  sent 
to  his  room.  He  always  travelled  with  a  flask  of 
the  whiskey  he  liked  best. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  bed  for  half-an-hour  or  so." 
He  turned  to  Welsh,  "  Will  you  come  to  my 
room  i 

Welsh  at  once  began  to  talk  of  Eunice.  "  Of 
course,"  he  said,  "  you  want  me  to  talk  of  her  ?  Tell 
me,  will  you  marry  her?  Will  you  marry  her, 
Mr.  Raynes?" 

"  No."  Edward  took  up  the  vein  of  this  direct 
attack. 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  ?  "  Welsh  was  disappointed. 
*'  But  every  time  you  see  her  you  will  find  not  being 
married  to  her  harder  to  bear.  There  will  be  no 
peace  for  your  sun-warmed  flesh.  Consider,  my 
friend!  To  have  her  entirely  to  yourself,  under 
your  absolute  control, —  to  be  able  to  play  with  her 
as  you  liked,  to  torment  her  or  to  caress  her,  to 
treat  her  with  all  the  sweet  unreason  in  the  world ! 
Think  of  it!  "  His  eyes  danced  impishly.  "  Why, 
how  can  you  hesitate  ?     If  I  were  free  — " 

"  My  dear  Welsh,  if  you  were  free,  you'd  marry 


The  Buffoon  211 

again  in  a  month.  You  were  born  with  a  wedding 
ring  on  your  finger.  It's  the  plunge  of  marriage 
that  appeals  to  you,  the  sensation  of  doing  something 
irrevocable.  No  power  on  earth  could  keep  you 
from  the  altar.  .  .  .  And  yet  no  one,  I  admit,  could 
be  less  married  by  marriage  than  you." 

"Upon  my  soul — "  Welsh  hesitated.  "Well, 
yes,  you  are  right.  You  are  always  right,  Rhada- 
manthus.  Most  dainty  of  Solons!  I'm  attracted 
to  marriage  because  it's  the  beginning  of  a  story. 
There's  something  so  dramatic  about  marriage,  and 
you  never  know  whether  the  story  is  going  to  be 
comedy  or  tragedy  or  burlesque.  Yes,  I  have  really 
the  same  attitude  towards  marriage  as  the  authors 
of  those  stories  in  back  numbers  of  The  Family  Her- 
aid.  You've  found  me  out.  I  have  no  sympathy 
at  all  with  these  modern  people  who  want  to  abolish 
marriage.  On  the  contrary,  I  should  like  to  abolish 
divorce,  and  so  make  marriage  even  more  of  an  event 
than  it  is.  These  free  unions,  leasehold  contracts 
and  the  rest,  I  can't  stand  them.  They  are  fright- 
fully dull.  They  are  as  dull  as  Ethical  Societies. 
The  kind  of  people  who  propose  them  would  turn 
our  churches  into  lecture  halls  and  entertainment 
rooms  for  '  good  citizens.'  No,  we  must  have  re- 
ligion, we  must  have  marriage,  if  only  to  keep  these 
dull  moral  ones  in  check.  I  support  marriage  be- 
cause it  is  entirely  immoral,  and  I  support  religion 
for  the  same  reason." 

"  You  have  an  extremely  lazy  mind."     Edward 


212  The  Buffoon 

was  horizontal  in  the  depths  of  his  chair.  "  Very 
little  activity  of  imagination.  The  abolition  of 
marriage  would  make  certain  picturesque  little, 
touches  impossible,  of  course,  but  there  you  stop. 
Can't  you  imagine  other  picturesque  elements  that 
would  come  in,  to  counterbalance  and  more  than 
counterbalance?  Besides,  change  is  in  Itself  pic- 
turesque. But  you  can't  bear  to  think  of  people 
not  being  '  landed  '  just  as  they  are  now,  or  not  being 
unfaithful  just  as  they  are  now.  .  .  .  You  are,  in 
fact,  inflexible  in  the  genuine  conservative  way. 
You  only  get  beyond  the  usual  conservative  in 
speaking  frankly  of  your  prejudices,  and  you  speak 
frankly  because  the  sensation  pleases  you."  Ed- 
ward sipped  his  whiskey. 

"  Curse  you !  I  can't  stand  these  sledge-hammer 
blows.  Where  is  some  sweet  Aumerle  to  deliver 
me  from  ruthless  Bolingbroke  ?  I  can't  answer  you, 
Harry  of  Hereford. —  But  will  you  aim,  then,  at 
a  free  union  with  this  exquisite  water-nymph?  Will 
you  sport  in  the  reeds  together  under  the  blessing 
of  Pan,  and  not  of  Holy  Church?  " 

"  I  can't  say.  As  yet  I  have  only  got  as  far  as 
asking  her  to  play  tennis  to-morrow." 

"  Tennis !     I  don't  like  that  for  a  beginning." 

"  I  haven't  seen  her  by  daylight  yet.  That 
seemed  the  easiest  way  of  seeing  her  by  daylight." 

"  But  she  is  so  wonderfully  artificial.  She  should 
never  be  seen  except  between  sundown  and  sunrise." 

"  Nights  are  sometimes  dark,  and  a  water-nymph 


I'he  Buffoon  213 

can't  disport  herself  under  the  electric  light.  She 
must  be  allowed  out  occasionally  by  day.  ...  Be 
reasonable." 

Welsh  was  silent.  Then:  "Well,  anyhow,"  he 
said,  "you  are,  it  seems,  taking  her  up?" 

"  I'm  not  sure.  I  don't  altogether  want  to  take 
her  up.  I  confess  I  feel  myself  threatened.  She 
would,  of  course,  try  to  make  me  let  go  of  a  great 
deal  that  I  like  to  have,  of  a  great  deal  that's  im- 
portant to  me,  part  of  me,  in  fact.  Women  always 
do.  She  would  say:  '  Ah,  but  you  shan't  be  your- 
self.' They  are  always  fraying  and  worrying  the 
edges  of  one's  personality, — like  bitch-terriers." 

Welsh  opened  his  eyes.  "  They  don't  fray  and 
worry  mine." 

"  Because  your  personality  is  wonderfully  en- 
cased. Your  subjectivity  is  proof  against  anything. 
You  take  temporary  colour  from  everything,  and 
permanent  colour  from  nothing.  You  have  a  sub- 
stratum that  nothing  can  touch,  and  a  layer  of  the 
most  porous  possible  substance  above  it.  My  ego- 
ism has  to  be  more  on  guard  than  yours.  I  have  to 
look  to  my  outer  lines  of  defence." 

"  And  I  needn't,  because  my  fort  is  impregnable ! 
Impregnable!  I  never  thought  of  that  before.  .  .  . 
Quite  true.  And  you  are  the  subtlest  of  analysts. 
.  .  .   Reggie  would  agree  with  you  about  women." 

Edward  winced.  "  Tryers'  feelings  about  women 
all  resolve  themselves  into  simple  spleen.  He 
doesn't  know  them,  he's  not  attracted  by  them.     He 


214  The  Buffoon 

throws  anything  at  them  that  he  can  pick  up.  He 
attacks  them  in  a  feminine  way.  I  defend  myself 
against  them  as  a  male.  I  am  attracted  by  them 
and  I  know  the  danger  of  that.  It's  a  danger  that 
only  the  harem  can  dispose  of,  but  the  worst  of  the 
harem  is  that  it  disposes  not  only  of  danger  but  of 
interest.  The  harem  in  the  long  run  is  deadly  dull. 
It  suits  meditative  Orientals,  but  it  wouldn't  suit 
us." 

"  If  you  don't  marry  Eunice,  will  you  marry  any 
one,  do  you  think?  "  Welsh  plunged  back  to  the  par- 
ticular, 

"  I  wish  I  knew.  .  .  ."  Edward  made  as  if  to 
continue,  and  then  stopped. 

"  Oh,  do  let's  discuss  it !  The  most  interesting  of 
all  subjects,  and  one  never  talked  of  frankly.  Why 
does  one  marry,  why  does  one  not  marry?" 
Welsh's  mouth  opened  widely.  "  Tell  me,  what 
are  your  thoughts  when  you  feel  inclined  to  take  a 
wife?" 

"  Oh,  it's  quite  simple,  that."  Edward  laughed. 
"  Quite  simple.  As  a  bachelor  I  have  to  choose  be- 
tween various  ways  of  dealing  with  sex,  all  more  or 
less  uncomfortable.  I  must  either  be  continent,  in 
which  case  I  am  continually  teased.  .  .  .  And  I  tell 
myself:  '  This  is  against  your  nature,  it's  a  damned 
waste;  you're  missing  something  that  you  won't  be 
able  to  get  when  you're  older.'  " 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Raynes !  I  had  no  idea  you  were 
so  normal  as  all  that.     Continence  is  just  what  ap- 


The  Buffoon  215 

peals  to  me.  I  ask  for  nothing  else.  I  should  have 
been  a  wicked  priest." 

"  Well,  no  doubt  that  makes  your  life  less  com- 
plicated. You  are  to  be  envied.  As  things  are  ar- 
ranged, it's  much  easier  for  you  to  live  according  to 
your  abnormal  nature  than  for  me  to  live  according 
to  my  normal  one.  Well  ...  I  can  be  continent, 
or  I  can  be  promiscuous.  I  can  take  a  girl  here,  a 
girl  there,  all  of  them  shared  with  other  men,  of 
course,  however  much  they  may  swear  not.  Distinct 
danger  in  that,  from  the  point  of  view  of  health,  and 
not  very  satisfying,  either.  Involves  a  great  deal 
of  trouble  and  fatigue,  as  much  trouble  and  fatigue 
as  marriage.  Then  I  can  be  even  more  promiscuous 
and  patronise  the  streets.  More  dangerous,  more 
unsatisfactory,  but  less  troublesome,  less  waste  of 
time.  Then  I  can  be  a  Don  Juan,  I  can  practise 
seduction.  Not  much  danger  to  health,  that,  except 
to  the  girl's  — " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know."  Welsh  spoke  apprehen- 
sively. "  Suppose  her  father  or  brother  got  hold  of 
you.  I've  had  some  awful  experiences.  Quite  un- 
deserved, of  course." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  they  went  for 
you  .  .  .?" 

*' Yes;  once.     I  had  to  run." 

Edward  paused  to  contemplate  and  enjoy  the  pic- 
ture.    Welsh  remained  grave. 

"  You  give  me  another  disadvantage,  then,"  Ed- 
ward resumed,  "  to  the  Don  Juan  line  of  action. 


216  The  Buffoon 

Though  some  Don  Juans  might  be  more  skilful,  as 
well  as  more  thorough  than  you.  But  I  wasn't  cut 
out  for  a  seducer,  either.  Don't  happen  to  be  un- 
scrupulous in  that  way.  .  .  .  Then,  in  the  fifth 
place,  we  have,  of  course,  adultery;  with  the  Law 
Courts  in  the  background.  I'm  not  French  enough 
to  be  particularly  drawn  to  the  cult  of  married 
women;  but  I  admit  there's  a  good  deal  to  be  said 
for  it,  in  comparison,  especially  if  the  husband  is 
complaisant." 

"  A  wittold!  "  Welsh  broke  in.  "  That  means  a 
complacent  cuckold.  A  word  I  have  always  liked. 
The  wittold!  Charming.  What  a  subject  for  a 
painter  of  portraits !  —  But  how  about  keeping  a 
mistress?     You  haven't  considered  that." 

"  I  was  coming  to  it.  Sixthly,  the  mistress.  An 
old  fellow  I  knew  said  to  me  once :  '  Don't  do  it. 
All  the  disadvantages  of  matrimony,  none  of  the 
advantages.'  He  wasn't  quite  right.  You  don't 
have  all  the  disadvantages;  you're  generally  cut  off 
from  the  woman's  family,  and  it's  easier  to  chuck 
the  affair  than  it  is  to  get  a  divorce.  But  it  is  true 
that  you're  just  as  much  bound  to  a  mistress  while 
you  have  her  as  you  are  to  a  wife.  Have  to  watch 
her  more  carefully,  too.  She  has  to  think  of  her  fu- 
ture as  a  wife  hasn't." 

"  But  would  you  mind  her  intriguing  with  other 
men?" 

"  Yes,  unless  they  presented  me  with  a  doctor's 
certificate,  frequently  renewed." 


rhe  Buffoon  2YI 

"  You  are  like  Panurge,  my  friend.  That  was 
one  of  his  considerations.  You  remember.  '  To 
mari'y  or  not  to  marry.'     What  a  passage !  " 

"  It's  a  consideration  with  every  man  who  isn't 
a  fool.  Fear  of  disease  accounts  for  a  high  per- 
centage of  marriages,  I'm  convinced  of  it.  The 
answer  to  the  old  question  which  bank  clerks  and 
counter-jumpers  think  it  so  witty  to  put:  'Why 
keep  a  cow  when  you  can  get  milk?'  is  obvious. 
'  Because  you  know  the  milk  is  pure.'  " 

"  Oh,  my  dear  friend!  My  dear  Mr.  Raynes!  " 
Welsh  shivered  and  grimaced.  "  Don't  say  such 
dreadful  things,  I  Implore  you!  These  anecdotes^ 
—  they  are  terrible !  They  give  me  real  pain. — 
And  I've  always  disliked  Brieux.  The  subject  is  dis- 
tasteful to  me." 

"  Well,  I'd  rather  think  about  syphilis  than  get 
it. —  Have  we  finished  this  category?  After  all, 
it  doesn't  interest  you  personally.  You  look,  you 
think,  you  create,  you  are  divine  in  your  independ- 
ence. You  are  as  the  Olympians,  calling  into  being 
the  good  and  the  evil.  ..." 

"  You  describe  me  admirably."  Welsh  rubbed 
his  hands. 

"  You  are  free,  I  am  bound." 

They  were  silent :  then  Edward  said  suddenly  and 
rather  shyly :  "  You  must  stay  with  me  again. 
The  fact  is,  I  like  you,  and  that's  something  new  for 
me,  for  somehow  or  other  I  have  no  friends.  So 
come  whenever  you  like." 


218  The  Buffoon 


"  Of  course."  Welsh  looked  at  Edward,  evi- 
dently touched.  "  Of  course.  Do  you  really  like 
me?  I  have  a  mania  for  being  liked. —  Yes,  I 
think  we  should  be  happy  together." 

"  If  I  could  find  a  girl  who  attracted  me,  and 
whom  I  liked  as  well  as  I  like  you,  I  would  ask  her 
to  marry  me  at  once.  But  that's  the  difficulty.  I 
never  like  women.  They  remind  me  of  Reggie 
Tryers." 

"  I'll  find  you  a  girl  to  marry!  "  Welsh  got  up, 
much  excited.  *'  I'll  find  you  a  girl  utterly  different 
from  Reggie !  From  now  on,  this  is  my  mission,  I 
swear  it.  I  am  consecrated  to  it,  my  friend !  — 
And  you  are  really  sure  that  Eunice  won't  do?  " 

"  If  I'd  met  her  five  years  ago,  perhaps.  ...  I 
don't  think  I  could  make  anything  of  her  now." 

"How  disappointing!  how  very  disappointing! 
But  I'll  find  you  a  girl,  you'll  see.  What  a  pity 
that  I  can't  become  a  girl  for  your  sake.  .  .  .  How 
exciting!  If  I  could  only  change  myself  to  a  beau- 
tiful slender  exquisite  female  thing  ...  if  I  could 
transform  my  meagre  hairy  thighs,  my  elderly  legs. 
.  .  .  You  should  see  how  I  would  make  love! 
With  what  sweet  reluctance !  I  have  always 
thought  that  I  could  make  love  better  as  a  girl." 

"  I  should  have  to  wean  you  from  your  cerebral- 
ism.     Could  I,  do  you  think?  " 

*' Oh,  yes!  I'm  only  a  cerebralist  as  a  man, — 
because  to  be  anything  else  means  action,  initiative. 
I  can't  be  the  possessor,  but  of  course  I  could  be  the 


rhe  Buffoon  219 

possessed!  Don't  talk  of  it!  Too  exciting,  much 
too  exciting. —  But,  you  know,  I  have  no  sympathy 
whatever  with  what  are  known  as  Hellenic  tastes.  I 
am  quite  different.  Those  good  kind  fellows,  Krafft- 
Ebing  and  Moll,  they  don't  deal  with  my  type  at  all. 
.  .  .  How  curious,  when  you  think  of  it,  that  most 
people  would  call  us  men  of  pleasure.  We  are  really 
men  over  whom  sex  has  a  peculiar  power  for  making 
us  extremely  uncomfortable." 

Again  they  were  silent,  and  for  a  longer  time  than 
before. 

"  Marriage,"  said  Edward  at  last,  "  is  a  way  out 
of  it.  I  recognise  that.  In  some  ways  one  would 
be  freer  in  marriage.  One  would  be  free  in  a  new 
way,  and  captive  in  a  new  way.  Anything  that  is 
new  has  its  appeal.  But  I  shrink  from  the  upheaval 
—  the  worry  —  so  much  change  that  would  rasp. 
My  egoism  shrinks.  I  can't  help  thinking  that  I 
should  be  more  —  well,  more  sawed  into,  in  the 
long  run,  than  I  am.  It's  true  that  I  have  to  put 
up  with  a  great  deal  that's  inharmonious  enough 
now;  my  pleasures  involve  me  in  having  to  say  and 
do  ridiculous  unpardonable  things;  I  have  to  get 
horribly  mixed  up-:  It's  a  game  I  can't  play  as  men 
of  a  certain  faculty  can  play  it.  But  I'm  not  sur- 
rounded on  every  side  as  I  should  be  by  marriage. 
I  can  escape   ...  I  do  escape.   .   .   ." 

He  looked  up  and  saw  that  Welsh  was  sound 
asleep. 

"  Well  — "  Edward  said,  half  aloud.     It  was  cer- 


220  The  Buffoon 

talnly  time  to  go  to  bed.  He  began  to  prepare, 
with  his  usual  carefubiess,  for  cleaning  his  teeth; 
he  woiidered  if  Welsh  would  still  be  there  in  the 
morning.  The  dropped  jaw  did  not  disturb  Ed- 
ward as  before.  He  reflected  that  it  would  be  the 
same  with  the  woman  one  married.  Characteristics 
at  first  disliked  would  become  tolerable.  But, 
equally,  much  that  was  welcomed  at  first  would  be 
as  time  went  on  rejected,  perhaps  abhorred.  This 
eternal  balance  and  counterbalance  —  he  went  in  too 
much  for  that.  He  was  far  too  prone  to  weigh; 
it  was  wearisome,  this  addition  and  subtraction,  this 
reckoning  of  advantages  and  disadvantages.  Could 
he  not,  for  once,  do  something  without  counting  the 
cost?  A  great  deal  to  be  said,  after  all,  for  Welsh's 
recklessness.  .  .  .  Ah,  yes,  but  Welsh's  tempera- 
ment evaded  any  penalty. —  There  it  was  again, 
this  curse  of  seeing  the  other  side,  seeing  it  in  this 
dull  automatic  way.  Better  never  to  see  it,  again 
like  Welsh,  even  though,  unlike  Welsh,  he  had  later 
on  to  foot  the  bill.  "  Confound  It,  let  me  have  some 
bill  to  foot  for  a  change!  "  He  had  lived  at  low 
cost  for  too  long.  He  was  too  safe,  too  well-ad- 
justed,—  why,  there  was  danger  in  being  like  that ! 
He  had  talked  of  the  risk  of  sawing  into  his  per- 
sonality, but  why  should  he  set  such  store  by  his 
personality?  Did  he  even  know  what  his  per- 
sonality was?  Had  he  ever  got  at  it?  Had  he 
ever  dared?  The  reflection  recurred,  what  value 
had  his  kind  of  character,  the  character  that  he  had 


The  Buffoon  221 

chosen  to  recognise  as  his?  But  then  it  was  all  he 
had.  If  the  idea  of  tending  his  "  personality,"  of 
playing  nursemaid  to  his  pretty  little  ego,  were  taken 
away  from  him,  what  would  he  have  left?  A  wife 
and  family,  perhaps :  and  he  doubted  if  he  had  force 
enough  to  make  his  domestic  life  distinguished.  .  .  . 

He  kicked  off  one  of  his  shoes  with  some  violence. 
Welsh  woke  suddenly,  held  up  his  hands,  looked 
scared,  cried  "  Good  night!  "  and  withdrew. 

Impossible  to  ignore  it,  Edward  was  irritated  and 
depressed.  He  remembered  his  journey  to  London 
two  days  ago,  his  childish  expectation  of  something 
that  was  going  to  happen, —  something  new.  .  .  . 
He  had  felt  like  that  simply  because  he  was  at  the 
mercy  of  sex;  it  was  sex  that  led  him  on  to  one  ab- 
surdity after  another,  sex  that  had  fooled  him  about 
the  girl  in  the  gallery,  sex  that  had  driven  him  to 
that  walk  and  made  him  go  without  his  lunch, — 
Well,  he  had  had  his  dinner,  he  had  scored  there  at 
any  rate.  But  he  had  not  scored  to-night.  He  had 
played  the  fool  without  being  amused.  When  he 
came  back,  he  had  felt  sick,  he  had  vomited,  using 
Welsh  as  a  feather  to  tickle  the  back  of  his  throat. 
But  without  relief;  the  taste  in  his  mouth  was  bitter. 
The  only  satisfaction  was  that  he  had  found  out  that 
he  liked  Welsh. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

NEXT  morning,  when  Edward  waked,  the 
sun  was  shining  full  into  his  room.  He 
had  slept,  as  always,  soundly,  and  he  was 
conscious  now  of  a  lovely  languor,  the  languor  that, 
after  late  nights  and  excitements,  varies  so  deliciously 
the  usual  sensations  of  robust  health.  How  very 
pleasant  it  was  to  feel  a  little  off  colour  now  and 
again!  He  lifted  his  bedclothes.  The  warm  faint 
carnal  savour  gave  him  extreme  pleasure:  how  at- 
tractive the  flesh  was !  especially  just  before  bathing. 
That  moment  was  the  moment  of  perfect  ripeness, 
twenty-four  hours  from  the  last  bath:  for  flesh 
newly-bathed  lost  some  of  the  properties  of  flesh, — 
that  smell  of  soap, —  yes,  one  was  too  clean.  On 
the  other  hand,  one  must  bathe  once  a  day,  to  avoid 
any  offending  hint  of  grossness:  if  Edward  were  to 
go  without  his  bath  that  morning,  he  would  cherish 
his  fleshliness  in  vain,  his  pleasure  in  his  body  would 
have  less  fine  an  edge :  while  if  he  were  to  bathe  both 
morning  and  night,  his  pleasure  would  be  attenuated. 
Yes,  he  had  hit,  he  reflected,  on  the  right  mean 
here.  It  was  just  so,  by  the  no  more  and  the  no 
less  of  the  daily  bath,  that  his  flesh  ripened  perfectly 
for  this  moment  of  perfection:  how  well  he  ap- 
preciated the   relish  of   enjoyments   depending,   in 


The  Buffoon  223 

this  way,  on  an  equipoise  that  more,  or  less,  would 
have  destroyed!  He  forgot  his  reactions  of  a  few 
hours  past. 

Edward  lay  on,  in  possession:  in  possession  of  the 
sweets  of  his  person,  in  possession  of  the  brightness 
and  warmth  and  cheer  of  the  sunlight,  in  possession 
of  the  pleasant  objects  of  the  room, —  the  green  silk 
dressing-gown  hanging  over  the  chair  by  his  bed,  the 
silver-topped  whiskey-flask  with  its  case  of  rich  dark- 
brown  leather,  the  dress  shirt  with  its  thin  gold  cuff- 
links. How  beautifully  those  links  showed  against 
the  starched  white  linen;  the  crest  on  them  had  been 
very  delicately  chased.  Edward's  spirit  possessed, 
with  equal  tranquillity  and  satisfaction,  the  engrav- 
ings framed  on  the  walls,  engravings  of  the  kind  that 
are  found  in  modern  hotels,  of  Coaching  Inns,  scenes 
in  the  Thames  valley,  old  London  streets.  They 
did  not  belong  to  him,  they  were  new  to  him,  and 
he  liked  that.  He  liked  the  room  being  obviously 
what  it  was,  a  room  in  an  hotel  of  modern  standards. 
How  was  it,  he  wondered,  that  you  could  tell  at  a 
glance  that  all  this  new,  clean,  sufficient  furniture  had 
come  in  as  a  fractional  part  of  some  enormous  or- 
der? His  eyes  rested  with  pleasure  on  the  writing 
table  in  the  corner,  with  its  blotting-pad  stamped 
with  the  hotel's  name  and  badge,  with  its  wooden  re- 
ceptacle for  paper  and  envelopes  and  telegraph 
forms.  .  .  .  Telegraph  forms !  He  must  use  one 
of  those,  he  must  send  a  telegram  to  Eunice  Din- 
widdle.    He  would  not  play  tennis  with  her,  cer- 


224  The  Buffoon 

tainly  not,  why  risk  it?  Suppose  he  had  to  wake  up 
on  mornings  like  this,  always  with  a  woman  by  his 
side?  Why,  it  would  spoil  everything.  She  would 
talk,  her  observations  would  be  irrelevant,  his  cur- 
rents would  be  deflected,  it  would  never  do.  He  was 
not  going  to  be  joined  on,  as  one  cuff-link  is  joined 
to  another.  He  was  damned  if  his  heart  and  an- 
other were  ever  going  to  beat  as  one ! 

He  reached  for  his  watch,  and  saw  that  it  was 
twelve  o'clock.  He  got  out  of  bed,  rolled  a  ciga- 
rette and  lit  it.  Those  pyjamas  were  a  success;  yes, 
it  was  exactly  the  right  shade  of  purple,  and  the 
little  gold  lines  were  pleasing.  A  Paris  purchase; 
Edward  recalled  the  remark  of  the  shopman  when 
the  pattern  was  chosen :  "  Ah,  m'sieur,  they  will  be 
so  beautiful  that  you  will  have  no  need  of  a  lady  to 
sleep  with  you !  "     Quite  right,  he  had  no  need. 

He  put  on  his  dressing-gown  while  deciding  that 
it  would  be  better  to  telephone  to  Mrs.  van  Spless 
than  to  telegraph  to  Eunice  in  her  care.  He  had 
no  other  address. —  *'  Urgent  call  from  London  — 
illness  of  a  near  relative  —  very  much  regret  — 
most  kind  of  you  if  you  would  tell  Miss  Dinwiddie 
—  my  sincere  apologies."  That  was  settled,  thank 
Heaven!  But  very  conscientiously,  guarding 
against  contingencies,  he  telephoned  to  the  Tennis 
Courts  as  well,  and  then  exultantly  called  up  the 
Hotel  office  with  an  order  for  coffee  and  rolls  to  be 
sent  to  his  bedroom.  He  would  breakfast  lightly, 
then  lunch  at  about  half  past  two.  .  .  .  These  lit- 


The  Buffoon  225 

tie  details  of  arrangement  In  daily  life,  how  full  of 
interest  and  charm  they  were  for  him!  Certainly 
he  was  a  born  bachelor. 

He  opened  the  communicating  door  and  went  to 
his  bath.  Delightful.  His  only  annoyance  was 
that  the  phrase  of  Browning — "Silver  shock" — 
came  to  his  mind  as  he  turned  on  the  douche.  Why 
no  phrase  of  his  own?  Why  had  he  himself  been 
elbowed  thus  out  of  reach?  None  the  less  the  bath 
was  delightful:  and  Edward  consoled  himself  by  the 
reflection  that  he  was  critical  enough  to  see  that 
"  silver  shock  "  was  not  really  a  good  phrase,  that 
there  was  something  superficial  and  muddled  about 
it,  just  as  there  was  about  Browning's  philosophy. 
The  French  genius  would  never  tolerate  a  phrase  of 
that  kind. 

Soon  after  the  coffee  and  rolls  came  Reggie 
Tryers.  Welsh  followed,  evidently  harassed,  evi- 
dently looking  for  a  way  out. 

"Breakfast!"  Tryers  cried.  "Why,  I'm  be- 
ginning to  be  hungry  for  lunch." 

"  There's  a  restaurant  round  the  corner."  Ed- 
ward did  not  raise  his  eyes.  "  There  is  always  a 
restaurant  round  the  corner."     He  broke  a  roll. 

Tryers  walked  about  the  room,  examining  the 
pictures,  while  Welsh  sat  down  timidly  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed,  and  Edward  ate  in  silence. 

"  Welsh  has  been  telling  me  all  about  last  night." 
Tryers  spoke  very  quickly  and  resolutely.  "  What 
were  your  impressions,  Raynes?     Any  impressions 


226  The  Buffoon 

worth  having? —  It's  really  waste  of  time,  isn't 
it,  meeting  people  of  that  sort? —  I  rather  like 
these  engravings. —  I  should  like  to  introduce  you 
to  my  Sydney  friend,  Hubert  Reeves.  He  has  real 
force  of  character.  In  fact,  he's  the  most  influ- 
ential man  of  his  kind  in  Sydney.  He  has  done  more 
real  work  there  than  any  one  else.  He  will  be 
spoken  of  as  '  Reeves  of  Sydney,'  later  on,  just  as 
one  speaks  of  '  Arnold  of  Rugby.'  A  remarkable 
man.  Of  course  Welsh  is  too  narrow  to  appreciate 
him,  but  you  would,  Raynes,  I'm  sure  you  would. 
We  sail  together  in  two  or  three  weeks'  time.  .  .  . 
I've  been  awfully  busy  since  I  saw  you.  Not  a  mo- 
ment to  myself.  There's  so  much  to  be  discussed,  so 
many  arrangements  to  be  made  — " 

He  moved  about  perpetually  as  he  spoke,  fixing 
first  one  object  and  then  another  with  an  intense 
gaze,  touching  the  picture-frames  and  the  mirrors 
and  the  backs  of  the  chairs,  and  talking,  talking,  all 
the  while.  There  was  something  animal  about  this 
inordinate,  meaningless  activity.  Edward  wanted 
to  let  him  out,  to  turn  him  loose  for  a  run,  as  you 
would  a  dog  that  had  not  been  exercised.  Evidently 
it  was  painful  to  Tryers  not  to  be  getting  rid  of  his 
emotional  surplus.  Edward  found  his  presence  in- 
creasingly disagreeable;  he  reminded  him  of  a  cow 
urgently  in  need  of  being  milked.  .  .  .  Humane, 
perhaps,  to  attempt  the  required  office. 

"  How  about  that  ridiculous  religion  of  yours?  " 
Edward  remarked,  as  he  poured  his  coffee. 


The  Buffoon  227 

Tryers  stood  transfixed.  Welsh  gasped  in 
amazement. 

"  Well,  well;  how  about  it?  Does  it  console  you 
for  your  failure  with  little  Norah  ?  " 

"  You  —  you're  a  cad !  "  Tryers'  eyes  were 
angry:  he  clenched  his  hands. 

"Why?" 

"  To  insult  a  man's  religion !  " 

"  I  can't.  Your  religion  is  ridiculous,  because  it 
isn't  a  religion." 

"  Why  do  you  call  it  a  religion,  then?  " 

"  Because  I'm  eating  my  breakfast.  Let's  take 
time,  then,  to  call  it  a  make-believe  religion,  or  a 
pseudo-religion." 

"  And  what  right,  pray,  have  you  to  say  that  mine 
is  a  pseudo-religion,  or  that  it  is  ridiculous?  How 
do  you  know?  " 

"  Because  I  know  that  you  are  ridiculous." 

"  How  dare  you  say  that?  " 

"  Don't  make  him  too  angry.  Don't  go  too  far, 
Mr.  Raynes. —  I  beg  you  !  "  Welsh  gesticulated  en- 
treaties from  the  bed. 

"  I'm  simply  stating  my  opinion.  I've  a  right 
to  do  that.  Tryers  needn't  be  angry,  unless  he  wants 
to  be." 

"  I  am  angry,  naturally,  when  your  opinions  are 
so  insulting  —  so  unjust.  To  say  that  I  become 
religious  — " 

"  Pseudo-religious." 

" — because  I  failed  in  —  in  sinning." 


228  The  Buffoon 

"  Yes,  and  you  always  will.  You  put  It  very  well. 
The  point  is,  though,  that  your  mistake  was  to  fail, 
not  to  sin.  But  having  failed,  you  said,  '  I  will  sin 
no  more,'  instead  of  '  I  will  fail  no  more.'  And 
now  that  you  are  what  you  call  religious,  you'll  fail 
just  the  same,  and  simply  because  you  won't  think 
clearly,  because  you  won't  put  your  finger  on  the 
right  spot." 

"  Very  well,"  Tryers  clenched  his  teeth,  "  you  will 
see. 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall.  I  know  so  well  the  kind 
of  thing  that  will  happen.  The  fact  is,  Tryers,  that 
your  failures  as  a  sinner  interested  me  a  little,  but 
your  failures  as  a  saint  won't  interest  me  at  all.  I 
have  no  intention  of  keeping  you  up  now." 

Tryers  sat  down.     He  collapsed. 

"  Very  well,  then," —  he  was  pale  — "  you  don't 
wish  to  know  me  any  more.     All  right." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Raynes,"  Welsh  addressed  Ed- 
ward in  a  tone  of  humble  intercession,  "  this  is  — 
really  it  is  —  rather  ciuel  of  you.  You  don't  con- 
sider the  chagrin  —  the  peculiar  chagrin  to  Reggie 
—  of  losing  one  of  his  circle  of  acquaintances  — " 

"  Shut  up  I  "  Tryers  interrupted  fiercely.  "  I 
don't  want  you  coming  in.  I  can  look  out  for  my- 
self, I  — " 

"  You  don't  know  how  he  clings  to  his  friends. 
There  is  something  pathetic  about  the  way  he  clings. 
I  find  it  a  nuisance  myself,  sometimes,  but  I  recog- 
nise a  certain  virtue  — " 


rhe  Buffoon  229 

"  You !  "     Tryers  trembled  with  indignation. 

*'  And  besides,  he's  going  to  Australia  so  very 
soon.  Don't  you  think,  just  for  a  week,  or  two,  you 
might  possibly  — ?  " 

"Will  you  be  quiet?"  Tryers  approached 
Welsh  with  a  gesture  more  than  hostile  enough  to 
make  the  latter  raise  his  hand.  *'  Have  you  both 
insulted  me  enough,  may  I  ask?  " 

"  Certainly,"  Edward  assured  him.  *'  I  want  to 
write  telegrams.  Jack,  we  are  going  this  afternoon 
to  Liverpool." 

"Liverpool!  Why  are  you  going  to  Liver- 
pool?"    Tryers  was  shrill,  he  almost  screamed. 

Welsh  was  much  excited.  "  This  afternoon !  "  he 
exclaimed.  "  Well,  why  not?  Why  not  this  after- 
noon? Tom  wmU  be  delighted  to  see  us.  And 
Ethelle,  we  shall  meet  with  Ethelle!  What  an 
idea !  —  But  I  thought  you  were  going  to  play 
tennis  with  Eunice  Dinwiddie." 

"  Oh,  no.     Not  to-day.     That's  all  right." 

"  I  thought  you  said  this  afternoon  — ?  " 

"  It's  all  right."  Edward  spoke  rather  impa- 
tiently. "  Must  one  always  keep  all  engagements? 
I  have  telephoned." 

"What  unscrupulousness !  "  Welsh  was  over- 
joyed.    "  I  never  should  dare  — " 

"Well,  you'll  come?" 

"  Of  course.  Of  course.  Reggie,  you,  I  sup- 
pose, will  hardly — ?  " 

"  I  should  not  think  of  coming."     Tryers,  with 


230  77/^  Buffoon 

tilted  head  and  flushed  cheeks,  walked  to  the  door. 

"  And  now,"  said  Edward,  "  we'll  write  the  tele- 
grams. My  landlady  lives  in  Bold  Street."  Tryers 
had  turned;  he  scrutinised  Edward.  "You  know 
Bold  Street?"  Welsh  rubbed  his  hands.  "I'm 
sure  she'll  have  a  room  for  each  of  us,  and  a  sitting- 
room.  She  was  expecting  me  rather  later  in  the 
month.  We  will  have  a  little  supper  party.  I'll 
telegraph  to  a  girl  I  know,  and  you'll  telegraph  to 
Ethel.  Here's  a  form.  Hurry  up.  The  train 
leaves  at  two  something." 

"  I'll  telegraph,  my  friend,  I'll  telegraph  at  once. 
I'll  get  Ethelle.  I  wonder  how  you'll  like  her!  She 
is  tall  and  blonde  —  the  North  German  type,  rather. 
A  thin  girl,  a  consumptive,  thin  flushed  cheeks.  A 
long  thin  body,  and  oh,  such  long  emaciated  legs !  " 

"  Yes,  I  remember  you're  attracted  by  bony  girls." 

"You  are  shameless!"  cried  Tryers  from  the 
door.     "  You  are  shameless  and  gross!  " 

"  Oh,  I  thought  you  had  gone."  Edward  did  not 
look  up. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  there's  any  romance — ?  " 

"  My  dear  Tryers,  one  doesn't  always  want  ro- 
mance. Why  be  bound  down  to  romance  ?  Try  to 
'  see  life  steadily,  and  see  it  whole.' —  Well,  Jack, 
what  is  this  Ethel's  point  of  view?  " 

''  Ethelle.  She  always  calls  herself  Ethelle. — 
Oh,  she  has  the  most  amazing  ideas.  She  will  amuse 
you.  She  has  spirit,  she  has  wit,  she  has  real  cour- 
age.    She  knows  she's  dying,  and  she  defies  the  uni- 


The  Buffoon  231 

verse.  A  Dostoevsky  type.  Oh,  you  will  admire 
her  audacity !  " 

"  Well,  write  your  telegram.  I'm  afraid  my  girl 
is  quite  normal.  She  certainly  won't  suit  you. 
She's  dark,  small,  rather  like  some  Goyas,  with  a 
plebeian  passion  for  pleasure  that  I  enjoy.  But  not 
in  Dostoevsky's  line  at  all.  The  two  will  be  in  con- 
trast.    It  may  be  interesting." 

"What  does  she  do?"  Welsh  evidently  hoped 
for  the  worst. 

"  Oh,  Betty's  respectable,  according  to  their  code. 
My  taste  doesn't  happen  to  be  for  the  kind  of  girl 
who  is,  as  they  say,  '  no  good.'  She  works  in  a 
milliner's  shop.  Frightfully  long  hours,  but  when 
she's  out,  she  really  hves.  I  thought  of  setting  her 
free;  but  she's  happier  as  she  is." 

"Respectable!"  Welsh  was  downcast.  "But 
think  of  the  appeal  of  the  genuine  prostitute !  She 
is  by  far  the  most  interesting  —  she  is  the  slave!  " 
He  shouted  ecstatically.  "  The  manacled,  scourged 
slave !  She  has  lost  everything, —  even  sex  itself. 
Yes,  it  is  because  she  is  drained  of  sex  that  her  ap- 
peal is  so  irresistible." 

Edward  went  on  writing  his  telegrams.  Tryers 
still  hesitated  by  the  door. 

"  You  are  entirely  mistaken  in  my  character,"  he 
said  emphatically.     "  You  will  see." 

"  All  right  Welsh  will  no  doubt  keep  me  in- 
formed.—  You'll  tell  me.  Jack,  won't  you,  if  any 
unexpected  developments  occur  in  Tryers'  case?" 


232  rhe  Buffoon 

Tryers  cast  a  glance  of  hatred  upon  Welsh,  made 
as  though  to  speak,  and  then  left  them. 

"  He'd  kill  us  If  he  could!  "  Welsh  exclaimed. 

"  Twelve  words  does  It  exactly,"  said  Edward 
with  satisfaction. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

TOM  FIELDING  was  to  meet  them  at  Lime 
Street  Station.  "Lime  Street!"  Welsh 
ejaculated  as  the  train  drew  near.  "  Lime 
Street!  What  associations!  Lime  Street  and  the 
Landing  Stage !  "    He  burst  into  rhyme : 

"At  Lime  Street  and  the  Landing  Stage, 

There  age  meets  youth  and  youth  meets  age! 

What  lies  are  told, 

By  young  and  old, 

At  the  Lime  Street  Station  and  the  Landing  Stage !  " 

His  excitement  had  quickened  at  Edge  Hill.  He 
had  invoked  Edge  Hill  with  the  same  kind  of  en- 
thusiasm. "  Think  of  the  scores  of  mean  streets, 
the  hundreds  of  mean  houses  and  mean  shops! 
There  is  nothing  so  attractive  to  me  as  a  mean  shop, 
—  the  kind  of  shop  at  which  little  ragged  girls  buy 
fried  fish.  Oh,  you  won't  do  away  with  mean  shops, 
Edward  Raynes,  will  you,  in  your  reconstruction  of 
the  universe  ?     Leave  us  our  mean  shops !  " 

By  the  time  the  train  stopped  Welsh's  exaltation 
was  beyond  control.  His  eyes  flamed,  his  lips  parted 
widely,  he  was  trembling. 

*'  There  he  is!  "  he  cried,  waving  his  hands  in  the 

22Z 


234  The  Buffoon 

air.  "  There's  old  Tom !  "  He  sprang  out  and 
dashed  along  the  platform  to  his  friend,  whom  he 
encircled  with  both  arms,  "  God  bless  you,  Tom, 
God  bless  your  heart!"  Fielding's  natural  em- 
barrassment escaped  him  altogether.  "  This  is  Mr. 
Edward  Raynes,"  he  gave  a  wide  sweep  of  the  hand, 
"  the  wisest  philosopher,  the  most  massive  mind,  in 
Europe !  —  I  present  you  to  Mr.  Tom  Fielding,  the 
Julius  Caesar  of  the  cotton  markets  of  Liverpool. 
So  the  two  most  intransigeant  individualists  of  our 
age  encounter:  here  on  the  platform  of  Lime  Street 
Station!" 

They  shook  hands.  "  For  God's  sake.  Jack," 
said  Fielding,  "  don't  make  such  a  song  about  it. 
One  of  the  fellows  from  the  Office  is  meeting  this 
train." 

Fielding  was  a  man  of  between  thirty  and  forty, 
about  middle  height,  solidly  built  in  North  Country 
style.  His  eyes  were  of  an  unusually  deep  fine  blue, 
and  gave  the  impression  of  being  habituated  to  a 
survey  of  great  spaces.  He  was  wearing  a  blue  suit 
and  a  blue  tie, —  the  tie  of  a  more  vivid  tint  than  the 
suit,  well  chosen  for  it.  His  nose  was  assuredly 
Roman.  Edward,  who  was  always  on  the  lookout 
for  noses  in  men,  at  once  admired  this  feature,  espe- 
cially after  his  disappointments  at  Mrs.  van  Spless's 
the  night  before.  A  man  with  a  nose  like  that,  so 
straight,  so  decisive,  so  clear,  must  have  fibre,  he 
reflected,  must  have  independence  and  resistance  and 
command.     Yes,  he  would  rather  live  with  Fielding 


rhe  Buffoon  235 

than  with  Raoul  Root  or  Massington.  Fielding's 
mouth  struck  him,  too.  It  was  a  large  mouth,  with 
nervous  lips,  a  mouth  that  contradicted  the  nose,  and 
Edward  liked  such  physical  contradictions. 

They  walked  along  the  platform.  Welsh  was  for 
the  moment  subdued  by  his  friend's  protest.  "  For- 
give me,  forgive  me,"  he  was  saying  in  a  pathetic  un- 
dertone. "  I  know,  Tom,  that  I  am  always  putting 
you  to  shame.  Tom  Fielding," —  he  turned  to  Ed- 
ward— "believes  in  outward  conformity.  You  see 
how  beautifully  he  is  dressed,  without  fleck  or  stain. — 
Oh,  I  have  news  for  you,  Tom.  What  do  you  think, 
my  friend,  what  do  you  think?  Reggie  Tryers  has 
become  an  Anglican.  He's  going  to  lead  a  pure  life 
and  build  a  church  in  Australia.  What  do  you  think 
of  that?" 

"  I  think,"  replied  Fielding,  "  that  it  pays  the  beg- 
gar." The  word  that  he  actually  used  was  pro- 
nounced with  a  North  Country  accent.  "  Come  and 
have  a  drink  in  the  Refreshment  Room." 

Welsh  insisted  that  there  was  not  time.  They 
must  take  a  tramcar  to  Bold  Street  at  once,  or  the 
girls  would  be  there  before  them.  Edward  sug- 
gested a  taxi,  but  Welsh  would  not  hear  of  that. 
"  No,  no, —  a  car.  We  always  take  the  car  in  Liv- 
erpool. The  Bold  Street  car."  He  smacked  his 
lips.  "  Who  is  to  be  your  companion,  Tom,  for  our 
supper  party?  Rosa  or  Maggie  or  little  Mabel? 
—  Rosa:  ah,  I'm  glad  you  have  chosen  Rosa. 
What  an  adventurer  you  are,  with  these  married 


236  The  Buffoon 

women !  I  suppose  her  husband  is  away  '  placing 
orders  '  in  Leeds  or  Huddersfield  or  Bolton.  Those 
places  were  created  solely  for  husbands  to  go  off  to, 
on  the  right  occasions.  But  you  don't  care,  bless 
your  heart,  where  husbands  are.  Rosa  has  such  a 
bewitching  simplicity  of  mind;  when  she  is  with  you, 
she  is  like  a  dear  little  child  enjoying  a  holiday. — 
Yes,  Rosa  was  the  right  choice  — " 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

EDWARD'S  landlady  was  exuberant  on  her 
threshold.  She  pressed  and  held  Fielding's 
hand  with  continental  fervour.  "  And  all 
these  weeks,"  she  cried,  "  these  long  weeks,  and  you 
do  not  come !  It  ees  not  kaind.  But  I  forgive  — 
always,  always,  I  forgive !  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Edward,  "  so  you  — " 

"  Oh,  yais!  Mr.  Tom  and  I  —  Oh,  yais, 
yais!" 

"  Madam  W.  doesn't  introduce  her  friends," 
Fielding  observed. 

"  But  I  know  this  lady  too,"  exclaimed  Welsh. 
"  You  remember,  Madame,  when  you  lived  in  Lord 
Nelson  Street  —  two  years  ago,  I  think." 

"  Oh,  yais,  I  remember."  The  woman  turned  to 
him,  very  arch  and  sly.  "  Oh,  such  a  wicked  gentle- 
man! Such  wicked  eyes!"  She  broke  into  high- 
pitched  trills  of  nervous  laughter.  "  I  am  vary 
much  surprised,  Mr.  Tom,  that  such  a  wicked,  wicked 
gentleman  should  be  a  friend  of  you.  I  must  look 
to  you  better.  And  you,  Mr.  Edward," — she 
darted  an  amorous  glance  at  him  — "  how  did  you 
come  by  such  a  vary  naughty  company?  Why,  look 
you  at  his  wicked  eyes  and  his  wicked,  wicked  mouth ! 

237 


238  The  Buffoon 

Eet  is  scho-king,  scho-king!  I  have  so  much  shame 
for  this  vary  naughty  gentleman!  " 

Welsh  was  immensely  flattered.  He  opened  his 
mouth  in  a  wide  grin  of  pleasure,  showing  all  his 
teeth;  he  leaned  back  his  head,  and  emitted  an  in- 
articulate satisfaction.  "Ha!  ha!"  he  ejaculated. 
Edward  admired  the  woman's  instinct.  How  cap- 
itally she  had  hit  on  just  the  way  of  getting  at 
Welsh's  vanity !  He  recalled  Mrs.  van  Spless's  salu- 
tation of  the  night  before.  No  wonder  Welsh  pre- 
ferred people  who  were  not  respectable,  no  wonder 
he  turned  with  relief  from  drawing-rooms  to  Ma- 
dame's  disreputable  parlour. 

"  There  will  be  no  old  gentleman  from  Boston 
here  to-night."  Edward  addressed  the  lecturer  in 
an  undertone. 

"Thank  God!"  cried  Welsh.  "No  literary 
ladies,  no  artists,  no  poets,  no  people  of  any  distinc- 
tion whatever !  Only  little  girls  who  love  pleasure, 
—  children  of  nature.  Ah,  my  friend,  we  come  to- 
night to  the  Thing  Itself.  Here  are  the  roots  of 
philosophy.  Unaccommodated  man  and  woman ! 
Here  we  strip  from  us  all  shams  and  simulacra  and 
chimaerae !  We  sophisticated  ones  are  no  longer 
sophisticated.  Primitive  emotion,  the  atavistic 
thrill,  the  Thing  Itself!     Unaccommodated  man!  " 

Fielding  put  a  restraining  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
"  Look  out,"  he  said.  "  If  there  are  any  other  peo- 
ple here,  you  may  startle  them.  They'll  think  there's 
some  row  on." 


The  Buffoon  239 

"  Ah,  he  talk  so  well,  he  has  beautiful  talk.  I 
will  keess  the  wicked  gentleman  for  his  beautiful 
talk."  Madame  flung  her  arms  round  Welsh,  and 
their  noses  collided.  She  laughed  again,  at  some 
length.  Her  laughter  had  a  curious,  not  very  pleas- 
ing, thick  liquid  quality :  it  always  reminded  Edward 
of  yellow  jelly  not  fully  jeHified. 

"This  is  the  room,  isn't  it?"  Edward  led  the 
way  and  opened  the  door.  He  saw  that  Madame 
had  done  her  best.  The  evening  was  turning  chilly, 
so  she  had  made  them  a  pleasant  little  fire.  A  lux- 
uriant tongue  was  at  one  end  of  the  table,  a  plump 
chicken  at  the  other,  and  in  the  middle  a  plate  of 
fruit. 

"  Well  done !  "  Edward  commended.  Madame's 
face  broke  in  rapid  ripples  of  pleasure. 

"  Ah !  "  she  panted  as  she  spoke,  in  a  way  peculiar 
to  her,  indicative,  it  seemed,  of  exaggerated  eager- 
ness and  childlike  spirit.  "  Ah,  how  much  more  I 
would  do  for  your  beautiful  hair!  But  I  must  not 
say  that:  he  do  not  laike  compliments, —  no,  never! 
I  must  not  say  pretty  things  to  him." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Fielding.  "  Say  them  to  me 
instead." 

"  Ah,  you  laff  at  me  if  I  say  them  to  you.  You 
tease  me!  " 

"  But,  my  dear  lady,"  Welsh  broke  in,  "  what  an 
excellent  room!  What  admirable  preparations! 
That  chicken!  Can  I,  do  you  think  I  can  eat  it?  " 
He  shut  his  eyes  and  made  a  horrible  grimace.     Ma- 


240  The  Buffoon 

dame  shrieked.  Edward  patted  her  shoulder  with  a 
reserved  and  distant  air. 

"  Could  you  make  us,"  he  asked,  "  a  little  salad? 
Your  salads  are  always  remarkable.  That  is  be- 
cause you  are  not  English." 

"  Oh,  you  are  so  kaindl     You  — " 

"  With  plenty  of  oil;  real  Olive  Oil,  not  that  cot- 
tonseed mixture.  Tomatoes,  lettuce  very  fresh  and 
green,  a  little  celery;  but  you  know  all  about  it." 

Madame  looked  up  joyfully  to  the  large  coloured 
print  of  King  Edward  the  Seventh  which  decorated 
one  of  the  walls.  "  I  will  make  it  at  once,"  she  qua- 
vered. "Ah,  I  will  make  it  vary  well, —  you  will 
see !  " 

"What  an  exquisite  tablecloth!"  Welsh  plied 
her  with  fresh  praise.  "  You  are  magnificent,  Ma- 
dame ;  I  consider  you  a  genius,  a  mistress  of  your  art ! 
I  commend  you,  my  friend,  I  commend  you !  I  have 
never  seen  a  table  spread  with  greater  delicacy  and 
refinement.     Your  taste  is  amazing!  " 

"  You  laff  at  me,  you  bad  gentleman !  "  She 
shook  her  finger  at  him,  flushing  with  delight. 
"  You  poke  funny — " 

"  Let's  see  our  bedrooms,"  Edward  interrupted. 
"  I  want  a  wash,  and  we  haven't  much  time.  Oh, 
and  tell  me  too,  how  about  drinks?  " 

"  Ach  —  but  I  dared  not,  dear  Mr.  Edward,  I 
dared  not  buy  wine  for  you.  I  have  only  a  bottle  of 
Vermouth;  and  there  is  wheesky." 


The  Buffoon  241 

"  Well.  Mr.  Fielding,  what  wine  will  you 
drink?" 

"  There  is  only  one  wine  on  these  occasions,"  said 
Welsh  eagerly.  "  Port.  We  always  drink  Port. 
Isn't  that  so,  Tom?" 

"  Well,"—  Fielding  replied  diffidently  — "  I  think 
the  girls  enjoy  Port." 

"Of  course  they  do.  Of  course!"  Welsh 
leered  with  a  fantastic  curl  of  his  lips.  "  That  is 
what  we  all  think,  that  the  girls  enjoy  Port,  that  we 
enjoy  their  enjoying  it!  Let's  all  go  out  and  buy 
what  they  enjoy  for  our  enjoyment.  Come  on! 
Round  the  corner,  to  the  Bodega !  " 

Edward  decided  that  nothing  would  persuade  him 
to  drink  Port  through  his  supper,  but  he  made  no  ob- 
jections. The  three  went  out  together,  dismissing 
Madame  to  her  salad.  They  returned,  each  bearing 
a  bottle  wrapped  up  in  brown  paper;  Edward's, 
however,  was  a  bottle  of  Chambertin.  Welsh's 
spirits  seemed  evaporated;  he  had  become  grave,  he 
looked  almost  care-worn.  Fielding  said  very  little, 
and  Edward  made  no  effort  to  break  silences.  It 
struck  him,  as  they  walked  back,  that  the  spectacle 
they  presented  was  ironically  absurd.  Three  men, 
in  procession, —  for  Welsh  had  stalked  on,  and 
Fielding  at  that  moment  was  lagging  behind, —  each 
carrying  a  bottle,  silent,  preoccupied,  going  about 
their  business  of  pleasure.  "  For  every  man  hath 
business  or  desire,  surh  as  it  is."     Hamlet's  melan- 


242  The  Buffoon 

choly  must  have  been  at  its  profoundest  when  he 
said  that,  "  Such  as  it  is."  Well,  well.  And  the 
bottle  of  Chambertin,  Edward  certainly  could  not  be 
optimistic  about  that.  No  date,  no  indications,  a 
dangerously  low  price;  but  all  they  could  give  him. 
"  My  Chambertin, —  such  as  it  is !  My  pleasures, 
such  as  they  are !  And  my  intellect,  such  as  it  is,  al- 
ways trotting  off  to  Shakespeare  and  others." 

The  three  men  fell  into  line.  Edward  looked  at 
Welsh,  whose  expression  now  was,  like  that  of 
Keats's  charioteer,  "  fearfully  intent."  He  was  not 
troubled  evidently,  by  Edward's  dissatisfactions. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  children  of  nature  arrived,  one  by  one,  be- 
tween eight  and  nine.  Ethelle  came  first, 
in  a  huge  picture-hat  and  a  bright  yellow 
blouse.  She  was  painted  and  powdered, —  distaste- 
fully meretricious  to  Fielding,  Edward  felt.  The 
girl  immediately  displayed  the  greatest  devotion  to 
Welsh :  she  sat  on  a  footstool  by  his  chair,  and  played 
tenderly  with  his  abnormal  worsted  socks.  Repeat- 
edly she  addressed  him  as  "  dear  'eart  ";  her  voice 
seemed  to  tremble  with  genuine  emotion.  Edward 
decided  that  she  was  enjoying  herself  immensely,  that 
this  was  an  orgy  of  sentiment  rarely  found  in  her 
way,  and,  when  found,  famishingly  sopped  up.  He 
listened,  fascinated,  to  her  talk,  which  evoked  ex- 
actly the  atmosphere  of  a  serial  story  of  a  servants' 
magazine. 

"  Oh,  and  when  your  telegram  come,  you'll  never 
know,  dear  'eart,  just  'ow  it  made  me  feel.  Well,  I 
know  I'm  foolish-like,  but  the  way  I  come  over  all 
queer !  I  'ad  to  put  me  'and  to  me  'eart  this  way, 
and  me  'eart  was  going  pit-pat,  'ammer  an'  tongs, 
something  fierce.  Believe  me,  dear  'eart,  an'  all  be- 
cause of  you,  naughty  boy,  who  don't  really  care  a 
brass  farthing  about  poor  little  Ethelle.     Look  at 

243 


244  The  Buffoon 


'im,"  she  appealed  to  Edward  and  Fielding,  "  you 
can  see  'e  don't  care,  now,  can't  you?  " 

Welsh's  aspect,  as  Edward  looked,  was  difficult 
to  interpret.  His  eyes  were  keen  and  bright  and 
fixed,  as  though  preoccupied  with  some  distant  ob- 
ject, the  visualising  of  which  demanded  extreme  con- 
centration :  his  mouth,  on  the  other  hand,  was  lax 
and  dropped, —  vacuous,  as  though  all  energies  had 
been  apathetically  dismissed.  One.  of  his  hands 
rested  tentatively  just  above  the  girl's  knee,  which 
he  kept  pressing  gently  in  a  queer  mechanical  w'ay; 
the  other  hand  held  a  thin  strand  of  her  yellow  hair, 
twisting  and  untwisting  it  with  a  slow  and  regular 
motion  of  its  hard  knotted  fingers.  Edward  had 
not  realised  before  the  appearance  of  age  in  Welsh's 
hands.  They  were  so  dry,  so  bony,  so  withered,  that 
they  might  have  belonged  to  a  man  of  seventy. 

"  He  cares,"  said  Edward  solemnly,  "  more  than 
you-  can  ever  know." 

"  Oh,  do  you  think  so?  You  don'  say.  An'  do 
you  think  so  reelly,  now?  You  ain't  sayin'  that  just 
to  give  me  'ope  of  'im,  now,  are  you?"  She 
coughed  the  thin  apologetic  aristocratic  cough  of  the 
consumptive;  her  cheeks  flushed  under  the  paint. 
"  You  wouldn't  believe  it,  would  you,  how  proper 
foolish  I  am  about  ^im.  Why,  now,  other  men,  I 
don't  give  a  snap  of  me  finger  for  'em;  they're  dirt. 
I'd  send  any  of  'em  down  the  spout,  God's  truth  an' 
I  would.  But  'e's  different,  'e  knows  I'm  \iman, 
that's  where  it  is.     'E  knows  — "  she  reached  with 


rhe  Buffoon  245 

difficulty  after  expression,  "  well,  'e  treats  me  like  a 
lady!"  She  burst  into  tears  and  gave  spasmodic 
hugs  to  Welsh's  waist. 

"  If  you  like  a  boy  you  shouldn't  tell  him  so," 
Fielding  remarked. 

"  Get  on.  I  can  tell  'im.  'E  ain't  no  soft  Archie 
like  the  rest  of  'em.  I  tell  you,  'e's  different.  'E's 
no  end  clever, —  proper  clever  'e  is,"  she  added  with 
pride.  "  You  should  'ear  'im  speak  'is  verses. 
Lovely,  they  are, —  loverly.  'E  made  me  cry  last 
time,    straight    'e    did.     There    ain't    no    one   like 

"  We're  in  the  way,"  said  Fielding.  "  Let's  go 
upstairs."     He  seemed  rather  nervous. 

When  they  were  outside  he  communicated  his  ap- 
prehensions to  Edward.  "  Always  a  mistake,  bring- 
ing girls  together  who  don't  know  one  another. 
You  never  can  tell  what  will  happen.  They  take  dis- 
likes, and  it  may  be  the  devil.  And  this  Ethelle,  any 
one  can  see  she  isn't  straight.  She's  on  the  game. 
My  girl  isn't  a  fool.  She'll  spot  that.  She's  one  of 
the  best,  Rosa  is,  takes  everything  easy,  never  makes 
a  fuss.     Still,  I  don't  like  it :  it's  not  fair  to  her." 

"  What  can  we  do  about  it?  "  Edward  was  sym- 
pathetic. 

"  I  don't  know.  We're  in  for  it,  now.  I  must 
speak  to  Rosa  first.  She's  a  brick,  all  right.  Will 
your  girl  mind,  do  you  think?  " 

Edward  recognised  the  tact  of  the  inquiry  and  re- 
plied that  though  Betty  was  respectable,  she  too  was 


246  The  Buffoon 

easy-going  and  not  likely  to  stand  on  her  dignity. 
Fielding  was  not  convinced. 

"  You  don't  know,"  he  said.  "  Girls  aren't  often 
easy-going  about  things  like  that.  They  may  pre- 
tend to  be,  but  they  aren't.  One  has  to  consider 
their  feelings.  Welsh  doesn't  understand.  Fle's  a 
curious  beggar  about  women.  Gets  hold  of  the 
most  awful  rotters,  seems  to  like  them  the  best.  It 
beats  me.  I  believe  in  giving  a  wide  berth  to  girls 
who  are  on  the  game.     Too  blooming  dangerous." 

"  Not  for  Welsh,  though." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  He's  a  funny  beggar.  He  has 
extraordinary  insight  about  women  in  some  ways; 
he's  up  to  all  sorts  of  subtleties  that  most  men  would 
never  think  of,  but  he  doesn't  understand  the  simple 
things  in  the  least.  He  was  trying  to  make  up  a 
match  between  one  of  our  chaps  at  the  Office  and  a 
girl  I  know  over  in  New  Brighton, —  nice  girl,  quite 
straight, —  and  what  do  you  think  he  said  to  her? 
'  You'll  get  him,'  he  said;  '  he's  in  a  state  of  mind 
just  now  when  he's  bound  to  marry.'  What  do  you 
think  of  that  for  a  mug?  Yet  he  goes  as  deep  as 
Ibsen  or  Strindberg  or  any  of  those  fellows  some- 
times. Too  much  of  a  Feminist  for  me,  though 
.  .  .  more  like  Ibsen  than  Strindberg." 

Edward  was  interested.  He  wondered  what  Rosa 
would  be  like,  and  imagined  Fielding  greeting  her 
with  courtesy  and  reserve,  as  though  she  were  a 
neighbour  calling  on  his  wife.  She  would  be  a 
plump  cheerful-looking  little  woman,  plump,  but  not 


The  Buffoon  247 

too  plump.  She  would  have  figure,  yes,  she  would 
have  curves,  she  would  be  soft  but  not  shapeless. 
Like  a  sleek,  pretty,  deceitful  cat.  One  would  figure 
the  voluptuous  padded  paws  stretched  out  in  lazy 
ecstasy.  One  would  see  the  rosy  relishing  tongue 
lapping  its  forbidden  milk. —  The  typical  adul- 
teress.—  Entirely  a  female  creature,  just  of  the 
sort  to  appeal  to  a  man  whose  nose  proclaimed  him 
so  entirely  male. 

The  front  door  bell  rang,  "  I  expect  that's 
Rosa."  Fielding's  face  lightened.  *'  She's  gener- 
ally pretty  punctual.  Beats  other  women  there,  too. 
Not  near  so  many  of  their  damned  conventions  — " 

"  Yes :  Welsh  thinks  that  when  you  get  away  from 
the  upper  classes  you  get  away  from  conventions. 
But  you  only  get  to  another  set  of  them.  I  was 
telling  him  that  the  other  day."  Edward  spoke  list- 
lessly, rather  sadly.     He  sjtill  felt  depressed. 

They  went  down.  Edward  kept  in  the  back- 
ground, while  the  lovers  exchanged  a  greeting  that 
struck  him  as  peculiarly  frank,  direct,  happy  and  in- 
nocent. Fielding  kissed  Rosa,  drawing  her  to  him, 
and  she  put  her  hand  in  his,  laughing  boyishly,  call- 
ing "  Hulloa,  Tom!  "  as  over  sand-castles  on  a  salt- 
breathing  shore.  She  was  astonishingly  clear  and 
fresh ;  she  seemed  born  for  the  open.  Her  eyes  were 
friendly,  full  of  mischievous  cheer,  eyes  that  it 
seemed  would  seek  out  simple  things  of  harmless  en- 
tertainment, and  find  them  on  instinct,  without  fail. 
Edward  wanted  to  set  her  by  Eunice,  to  see  which  of 


248  The  Buffoon 

the  two  would  triumph.  Rosa  caught  his  glance, 
she  bit  her  lips  in  a  sudden  childlike  way.  Edward 
could  not  associate  her  with  anything  but  childlike 
pleasures.  How  smooth  and  unsullied  her  skin  was ! 
He  liked  her,  but  she  did  not  stir  him  at  all.  Field- 
ing said  something  to  her  in  an  undertone  and  she 
laughed  again.  She  went  merrily  upstairs  with  her 
paramour,  who  made  Edward  known  to  her  as  they 
passed. 

Edward  could  not  help  feeling  rather  overcome. 
Perhaps  Welsh  wasn't  such  a  fool  with  his  "  children 
of  nature,"  after  all.  He  himself,  rather,  had  been 
the  fool,  with  those  anticipations  of  Rosa.  But  how 
to  guess  these  things?  The  unfaithful  wife  of  a 
Liverpool  commercial  traveller,  a  woman  with  sev- 
eral children,  a  woman  of  past  thirty,  and  yet  — 
there  she  was!  What  could  you  do  when  people 
were  so  preposterously  out  of  tally  with  their  desig- 
nations? 

He  went  back  to  the  parlour.  Welsh  and  Ethelle 
were  in  exactly  the  same  positions  as  before,  but  it 
was  Welsh  who  was  talking  now. 

"  Do  you  believe,"  he  was  saying,  "  that  you  have 
a  soul?  I  tell  you  no.  No:  no:  no."  He  tapped 
her  forehead  three  times :  she  looked  bewildered,  dis- 
tressed. "  You  have  love,  you  have  fear,  you  have 
tears,  but  you  have  not  hate;  and  without  hate  there 
is  no  soul.  Edward  Raynes,  my  friend,  this  girl  is 
the  pure  Christian  type,  she  has  all  the  Christian  vir- 
tues.    Humihty,  grief,  cowardice,  altruistic  passion. 


The  Buffoon  249 

devotion;  yes,  she  has  them  all,  ail.  But  when 
Christianity  came  the  soul  died.  When  Christianity 
came  it  was  a  sign  that  the  soul  was  dead.  No 
Christian  can  have  a  soul !  "  he  shouted.  "  The  soul 
has  pride  and  hate  and  scorn.  I  see  you," — he 
stared  at  her  in  a  fierce  rapture  — "  I  see  you  beaten 
down,  crushed,  drained  dry,  cheated  of  your  last 
breath, —  put  away,  put  away!     Ha !  " 

He  grinned  and  grimaced:  the  terrified  girl 
shrieked ;  she  burst  into  shaking  sobs.  Fielding  flung 
open  the  door. 

"What  the  deuce — ?"  he  exclaimed.  "Why, 
what's  up,  Ethelle?  " 

"  All  right,  Tom,  it's  all  right!  "  Welsh  sprang 
to  his  feet.  "  Son  of  Nietzsche,  be  not  disturbed ! 
Who  was  It  that  said:  'When  you  go  to  see  a 
woman,  take  a  whip  '  ?  Ah,  I  have  you  there.  I 
take  my  whip,  and  you  don't.  What,  Tom,  what? 
Scourges  and  scorpions  lie  under  my  tongue.  Why, 
Tom,  why !  Would  you  grudge  us  these  dear  little 
diversions  with  our  dear  little  trulls?  " 

"  'E  says  Fm  a  coward,"  Ethelle  faltered  between 
her  diminishing  sobs.  "I  ain't  a  coward,  Tom;  I 
ain't  afraid  of  nobody.  I  wouldn't  let  no  one  talk 
at  me  that  way,  'cep.t  'im,  'e  knows  that."  She  ex- 
tended her  little,  damp,  scented,  screwed-up  handker- 
chief, and  blew  her  reddening  nose. 

"  Look  here."  Fielding  drew  Welsh  aside. 
"  I've  made  it  all  right  with  Rosa ;  you  know  what  a 
good  sort  she  Is.     Now  if  it  was  some  other  girls  I 


250  The  Buffoon 

know, —  but  —  well,  you  might  be  a  bit  careful." 

"  What  I "  Welsh's  voice  was  high-pitched. 
"  Madam  Bovary  shrinks  from  the  contact  of  Sonia ! 
Where  is  she,  Tom,  where  is  she?  " 

"  Upstairs,  doing  her  hair.  Don't  be  a  bally  ass. 
She  won't  shrink;  she's  not  one  to  shrink."  Edward 
thought  of  that  other  one,  who  so  pre-eminently  was. 

"  In  your  bedroom,  Tom?  "  Welsh  shouted  still. 
"  Your  bedroom  I  Or  in  mine  ?  Or  in  the  bedroom 
of  Mr.  Edward  Raynes?  Or  perhaps  under  the 
protection  of  the  cheerful  and  devoted  lady  of  the 
house  ?  " 

Fielding  laughed.  "  All  right.  Jack,"  he  said. 
"  Go  on.     I  don't  trouble." 

The  front  door  opened,  and  Edward  went  to  greet 
Betty.  She  embraced  him  heartily,  as  a  schoolgirl 
embraces  a  benevolent  uncle.  Edward,  remember- 
ing that  equal  embrace  just  witnessed,  was  vexa- 
tiously  touched.  Still,  Betty  was  much  younger  than 
Rosa.     He  balanced,  as  usual. 

The  girl  drew  back,  catching  her  breath.  "  Oh," 
she  said,  glancing  into  the  room,"  you  have  got  com- 
pany to-night,  and  no  mistake !  " 

"  Friends  of  mine,"  Edward  rejoined.  "  Don't 
be  afraid  of  them." 

He  looked  at  her  with  approving  pleasure,  she  was 
so  light  and  keen,  so  nicely  and  prettily  got  up.  She 
wore  a  peaked  cap,  like  a  gnome's,  a  cap  of  blue 
leather,  and  a  blue  straight  dress,  with  a  wide  white 
collar.     Her    hair,    very    dark    and    straight,    was 


The  Buffoon  251 

blocked  over  her  ears,  reminding  Edward  of  the  hair 
of  a  mediaeval  boy.  He  was  stirred,  as  he  looked, 
by  her  queer  crooked  mouth,  her  very  pointed  chin; 
while  the  warm,  nervous  touch  of  her  tiny  hands  gave 
him  a  physical  glow.  Her  hands  were  stubby,  like 
the  hands  of  an  elf  thai  grubs  in  the  earth;  they  were 
the  hands  of  a  stunted  proletarian  girl;  they  meant 
youth  and  toil  and  snatched  pleasure. 

"  Come,"  said  Edward,  drawing  his  arm  under 
hers,  "  they  won't  be  ready  for  supper  for  a  few 
minutes."  His  heart  was  beating,  the  words  strug- 
gled in  his  throat. 

They  went  upstairs  in  silence.  When  they 
reached  the  landing  he  caught  her  and  lifted  her  off 
her  feet.  His  eye.s  darkened,  he  kissed  her  again 
and  again,  till  her  lips  and  his  were  white.  Her  eyes 
shone  wet  under  the  lowered  gas. 

"  That's  what  I  wanted,  Betty,"  he  said,  draw- 
ing a  deep  breath. 

"  I  think  you  did."  She  smiled  and  clutched  at 
his  hand.  "That's  proper  kissing!"  Edward's 
eyes  darkened  again.  He  put  her  hair  back  from 
her  forehead.  "  Oh,"  she  said,  with  a  provocative 
little  frown,  "  don't  make  me  look  like  bald  Jane." 
She  slid  away  from  him.  "  Which  room  shall  I  go 
to?  "  she  asked.  "  No,  you  wait  for  me  here  while 
I  put  my  hair  straight." 

She  came  down  in  a  few  minutes  without  her  cap, 
kissed  him  casually,  and  they  went  down  together. 
In  the  supper  room  Rosa  chattered  buoyantly  to 


252  The  Buffoon 

Fielding,  who  was  enjoying  her  with  quiet  zest,  and 
looked  years  younger;  while  Ethelle,  manifestly  on 
her  dignity,  extremely  erect,  was  behaving  like  a  lady 
at  the  other  end  of  the  room  with  her  companion. 
"  I  don't  feel  'ungry  a  bit,  y'know,"  she  was  saying  as 
Edward  and  Betty  came  in,  "  me  appetite  'asn't  bin 
what  you  might  call  grand  for  a  long  time."  Welsh 
was  silent  and  absorbed,  hunched  up,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  ground,  unresponsive  to  all  observations, 
but  the  appearance  of  Edward  and  his  little  friend 
roused  him  from  meditation.  He  rose  and  hurried 
to  them. 

"  Ha,  so  this  Is  Betty.  What  a  dainty  little  crea- 
ture !  What  a  delicate  little  epicene !  Well  done, 
my  friend,  well  done !  "  He  opened  his  mouth  and 
brought  his  alarming  stare  upon  the  girl,  who  shrank 
from  him,  laying  her  hand  on  Edward's  arm. 

"  This  friend  of  mine,"  Edward  reassured  her, 
"  is  a  poet.  A  great  poet,"  he  added,  taking  a  leaf 
out  of  Welsh's  book.     "  Don't  be  afraid  of  him." 

Edward  then  presented  Betty  to  Ethelle,  with  a 
formality  that  he  knew  would  flatter  the  street-girl. 
Fielding  took  Betty  in  approvingly,  and  warmly 
grasped  her  hand.  He  looked  at  her  with  a  deliber- 
ate kindliness,  a  kindliness  that  was,  you  might  think, 
pigeonholed  for  his  friends'  girls.  His  attitude  to- 
wards Betty  seemed  to  spring  up  at  once :  there  It 
was,  professed,  primed  and  accoutred.  Rosa  smiled 
at  the  girl  with  the  freemasonry  of  a  playmate,  and 
took  up  her  talk  again. 


The  Buffoon  253 

"  So  she  made  love  to  you,  Tom,  did  she?  "  she 
was  saying.  "  Poor  old  Tom,  what  a  way  to  treat 
you!  "  She  leaned  back,  laughing,  and  pinched  his 
arm.     "  Couldn't  you  defend  yourself?  " 

"Defend  myself?"  Fielding  put  on  a  woful 
air.  "  What  was  I  to  do?  My  pal  left  me  in  the 
lurch,  went  off  with  his  girl,  and  there  was  I  alone 
with  Madam  W." 

*'  Trust  Auntie  dear  not  to  miss  a  chance  like 
that!" 

"No  way  out.  Defend  myself!  I  wish  you'd 
been  there !  She  fell  on  me.  And  then  when  that 
devil  Cyril  came  back,  and  I  told  him  about  it,  all 
he  said  was :  '  I'm  very  sorry,  Tom.'  '  Very 
sorry ! '  And  after  all  the  misery  I'd  been  through ! 
'  Very  sorry!  '     So  was  I,  by  gum." 

"  Never  you  mind,  Tom.  I  ought  to  be  about  to 
look  after  you.  Who'll  be  your  next  girl,  eh? 
Mind  you  get  some  one  who's  a  good  protector." 

"  No  next  girl  for  me."  Fielding  was  decisive. 
"  You're  my  last  love,  Rosa." 

"  I'd  rather  be  your  last  love  than  your  first." 

Welsh  started.  "  Extraordinary !  "  he  broke  his 
silence.  "  Who  was  it  wrote  that?  Goethe?  Du- 
mas? Some  man  of  immense  genius.  You  see,  Ed- 
ward Raynes,  what  we  find  in  Liverpool.  Imagine 
any  one  talking  like  Goethe  at  Mrs.  van  Spless's !  I 
tell  you,  this  is  the  real  thing,  this  is  what  matters, 
this  is  the  bedrock  of  Life." 

"  I  don't  fancy  'er  kind  of  talk."     Ethelle,  quite 


254  I'he  Buffoon 

ignorant  of  Welsh's  drift,  whispered  him.  "  Silly 
of  me,  ain't  it?  But  some'ow  it  ain't  my  style. 
Not  nice.     She  don't  talk  respectable." 

Welsh  did  not  respond.  Betty  was  rather  shyly 
confiding  her  amusement  to  Edward. 

"  What!  "  Rosa  had  gone  on  talking  to  Field- 
ing.    "  Didn't  you  hear  about  the  woolly  vest?  " 

Ethelle's  back  straightened  in  protest. 

"Oh,  /  didn't!"  cried  Welsh.  "Do  tell  us. 
We  must  hear  about  the  woolly  vest." 

Ethelle  relapsed,  but  she  still  looked  pained  and 
hurt. 

"  Such  a  time  as  we  had."  Rosa  addressed  the 
company.  "  Our  girl  Vera  —  you  know  Vera,  Tom 
—  Vera  and  her  soldier  boy !  Got  a  cigarette, 
Tom?  —  I  and  Olive  caught  her  nicely.  Came  back 
home  before  she  expected,  you  see.  And  what  do 
you  think  we  heard  him  saying?  'Where's  my 
woolly  vest,  Vera  ?  '  So  solemn  as  he  was  about  it. 
'  Where's  that  woolly  vest?  I  can't  find  my  woolly 
vest,  and  I've  looked  everywhere.'  My  word,  the 
way  he  swore  and  carried  on!  And  she  said, — 
quite  peevish,  she  was, —  she  says,  *  I  don't  know 
where  you  put  your  old  woolly  vest,  Li-o-nel.'  " 

Rosa  broke  off,  put  her  cigarette  down,  and  cov- 
ered her  flushed  face  with  her  hands.  Her  laughter 
pleased  Edward.  He  thought  it  quite  captivating; 
sincerely  gay.  Ethelle  regarded  her  with  moral  dis- 
approbation. 

"Go  on!"     Welsh  rubbed  his  hands.     "I  en- 


The  Buffoon  255 

visage  this  garment  as  a  strange  animate  creature,  a 
wandering  insect,  a  Gargantuan  caterpillar.  Well 
done,  my  pretty  sailor  boy !     Go  on !  " 

"  The  way  we  teased  that  poor  girl  about  it  after- 
wards. '  Well,  Vera,  and  has  he  found  his  woolly 
vest?'  'I  wouldn't  go  with  boys  who  lose  their 
woolly  vests,  soft  Jimmies  like  that!  '  You  should 
have  seen  her  colour  up  !     Good  night !  " 

*'  Come  on,"  Fielding  broke  a  pause,  "  let's  start 
in  and  have  some  grub."  Standing  at  one  end  of  the 
table,  he  began  to  cut  up  the  chicken.  "  That's 
right,"  said  Welsh,  as  though  in  a  dream.  "  Very 
good,  Tom,  very  good."  Edward  took  a  couple  of 
bottles  and  unscrewed  their  corks.  The  atmosphere 
became  touched  with  gravity  and  restraint  as  they  all 
sat  round  the  table.  Even  Rosa  was  a  trifle  pensive. 
Ethelle  and  Betty  eyed  one  another  furtively. 
Fielding  went  on  carving  the  chicken,  Edward  poured 
out  the  pseudo-Port,  and  then  helped  himself  to  the 
still  more  pseudo-Chambertin,  which  he  smelt  ab- 
sently, with  a  doleful  air.  There  came  a  knock 
at  the  door,  and  Madame  appeared  with  the 
salad. 

"  Ach !  "  she  exclaimed  at  once,  with  her  laugh. 
"  You  'ave  all  come  ?  How  naice,  how  vary  naice ! 
And  zees  sweet  leetle  gal  — "  She  put  the  salad  on 
the  table  and  shot  out  her  hand  to  Betty.  "  She  ees 
my  favourite,  oh,  yais,  she  ees,  she  know  that  I  jus' 
lofe  her  to  death."  She  clutched  the  girl  with  one 
hand  and  caressed  her  hair  with  the  other.     "  Oh, 


256  The  Buffoon 

tti  I  was  a  mahn,  would  I  not  'ave  'er  for  my  leetle 
sweetheart!  " 

"Ha!  "  cried  Welsh,  waking  up.  "This  is  in- 
teresting. Ha!  And  could  you  get  me,  do  you 
think,  my  dear  lady,  five  eggs,  five  raw  eggs?  " 

Madame  threw  up  her  hands.  "  I  haf  not  von  aig 
in  ze  'ouse  !  " 

"  Impossible !  "  Welsh  stared  wildly  at  her. 
"  But  I  must  have  them.  I  beg  of  you,  I  entreat  you, 
find  me  some  eggs." 

"  These  hardships  of  ours,"  murmured  Edward. 

"  Go  out  and  get  him  his  eggs,"  said  Fielding. 

"  My  word!  "  exclaimed  Ethelle.  "  Fancy  eatin' 
eggs  raw.  Makes  me  come  over  funny  inside  to 
think  of  it."     Betty  giggled. 

"  My  dear  lady,"  Welsh  attacked  again,  "  it  will 
be  appalling  if  I  have  no  eggs.  I  implore  you,  do 
your  best  for  me.  I  shall  be  in  your  debt  forever." 
He  extended  half  a  crown,  which  Madame  dubiously 
accepted. 

"  It  ees  so  vary  late." 

"  What  matter?  Go  to  the  neighbours,  ring  back 
doo-r  bells,  here,  there,  everywhere.  Thorough 
bush,  thorough  briar!  At  any  cost.  You  hear  me, 
Madame,  at  au'^  cost!  " 

"Well,  zen,— I  will  try,  but—" 

"  Clear  out  and  get  the  eggs,  and  hurry  up  about 
it."  Fielding  had  her  out  of  the  room  in  a  twin- 
kling. 


rite  Buffoon  257 

"  My  dear  Tom,"  Welsh  protested,  "  how  ex- 
tremely abrupt  — !  " 

"  There's  only  one  way  of  getting  some  women 
to  go,"  Fielding  explained,  *'  empty  'em  out  like  a 
pail  of  slops." 

"Oh,  Tom!"  Ethelle's  gentility  suffered  an- 
other shock.  "  But  then,  dear  'eart,"  she  turned  to 
Welsh,  "  we  know  'e  don't  reelly  mean  it  when  'e 
talks  that  way.  As  if  'e  wasn't  reelly  the  kind- 
est—" 

"  Fm  not  so  sure,"  Rosa  interjected  with  some 
feeling.  "  The  most  of  women  don't  deserve  no 
better.  A  sneaky  interfering  tale-bearing  set  of  hus- 
sies,—  eh,  Tom?"  She  changed  her  expression, 
smiled  at  him,  looked  debonair. 

"  I'm  sure,"  retorted  Ethelle,  with  weighted  dig- 
nity: the  word  "  hussies  "  had  stung  her,  "  I'm  sure 
I  'ope  you  ain't  passin'  any  personal  remarks.  Miss 
—  Miss—" 

"  Mrs.,"  corrected  Rosa,  with  an  engaging  flicker 
of  the  eyelid.  "  Me  and  my  old  man."  She  took 
Fielding's  arm. 

"Dear  little  girl!"  Welsh  patted  Ethelle's 
shoulder.  "  How  exquisite  you  are  when  you  look 
as  if  you  were  going  to  cry!  "  She  was  pacified  at 
once.  "  There,  there."  He  stroked"  her  hair. 
"  Eat  your  chicken :  drink  your  Port :  let  me  help  you 
to  some  salad." 

"Salad?"     Ethelle  surveyed  Madame's  confec- 


258  The  Buffoon 

tion  disdainfully.     "  Not  me  idea  of  salad  at  all. 
No,  thank  you,  Jack." 

Nothing  would  induce  her  to  touch  it.  She 
seemed  to  feel  that  eating  anything  to  which  she  was 
not  used  would  make  her  ridiculous.  Welsh  began 
to  take  an  interest  in  teasing  her. 

"Naughty  girl!"  he  cried.  "What  perversity! 
Why,  this  is  Queen  Mary's  favourite  summer  dish; 
nothing  else  is  ever  served  at  the  garden-parties  of 
the  aristocracy !  Yet  you  reject  it !  It  was  invented 
by  that  master  epicure,  Emile  Zola  — " 

"  Well,  and  who's  she?  "  Ethelle  queried  sharply. 

"  She  was  Napoleon's  favourite,  she  demoralised 
him  completely,  I'm  afraid  she  did.  In  fact  it  was 
really  because  of  her  that  he  was  so  much  off  colour 
at  the  end, —  Waterloo  and  all  that.  But  she  was 
unequalled.  What  a  child  of  pleasure!  And  this 
salad  was  her  masterpiece !     Do  try  it." 

"  Chuck  it.  Jack,"  Fielding  remonstrated.  "  Let 
the  girl  be." 

"  Ah-h."  Welsh  drew  a  deep  breath.  "  But 
when  she  cries, —  when  she  cries !  O  everlasting 
spirit  of  the  Marquis  de  Sade  1  Don't  you  want  her 
to  be  stirred,  Tom  ?  Edward  Raynes,  you  do,  surely 
you  do,  don't  you  ?  If  only  I  had  the  power  to  make 
her  really  tragic!  Surely  that  would  interest  you? 
Rosa,  Betty,  can't  you  touch  her,  can't  you  give  life 
to  her  spirit?  I  hoped  Rosa  would  strike  the  spark, 
you  know." 

"Have    a    row?"     Rosa    leaned   happily   back. 


The  Buffoon  259 

"  Not  me.  I'm  not  one  for  rows,  am  I,  Tom?  Ex- 
cept at  home,  of  course.  You  can't  get  along  with- 
out them  there,  once  in  a  way." 

"  You  know,"  Welsh  went  on  with  increasing  ani- 
mation, "  I'd  been  hoping  for  a  manifestation  to- 
night of  that  particular  eternal  antagonism,  that  par- 
ticular eternal  rivalry;  you  know,  you  understand, 
Tom,  how  Thais  must  have  hated  and  derided  the 
frailer  ladies  of  Alexandria.  It  is  the  hatred  of 
those  who  give  all  for  those  who  keep  back  a  part  of 
the  price. —  I  should  have  found  that  extraordina- 
rily interesting." 

"  Very  likely,"  said  Edward.  "  But  we  prefer 
peace  and  our  supper." 

"  That's  just  it."  Fielding  drained  his  glass. 
"  Jack  has  to  substitute  his  sensations  for  chicken  and 
tongue.     I  wish  to  goodness  you  could  eat.  Jack." 

"  Yes,"  Betty  put  in  timidly,  "  raw  eggs  aren't 
much,  are  they?  " 

"  True,"  said  Welsh;  "  true.  But,"  he  turned  to 
Ethelle,  "  you  have  stopped  crying.  Go  on,  dear 
child,  go  on." 

Ethelle  looked  resentfully  at  him.  "Then  I 
won't!"  she  declared,  turning  away.  "  Makin'  a 
bloomin'  show  of  me !  "  She  hid  her  face  and  be- 
gan to  cry  bitterly. 

"  Ah,  I  like  you  to  cry !  "  Welsh  was  enthusias- 
tic. "  Let  me  say  again  that  I  like  you  to  cry. 
Your  appeal  to  me  is  amazing  when  you  cr>'  like  that. 
Let  me  look  at  you,  my  dear  child,  let  me  look." 


260  The  Buffoon 


He  seized  her  hands:  she  kept  her  face  turned  from 
him.  "  Ah,  you  are  shy,  you  are  shamed,  you  don't 
imsh  me  to  look.  What  delicious  chagrin,  what  ex- 
quisite humiliation !  " 

" 'Oo's  cryin'?"  said  the  girl  impatiently  in  a 
smothered  voice..  "  Get  out.  I'm  goin'  upstairs  to 
wash  me  face."  Welsh  fixed  his  gaze  on  her  as  she 
left  the  room. 

"  Your  cruelty  Is  extraordinary,"  Edward  flatter- 
ingly observed.  Betty,  by  his  side,  remained  demure 
and  unastonished.  Fielding  and  Rosa  were  Inter- 
ested In  one  another. 

"  Ha,  and  you  sucked  the  sweets  of  that  episode, 
my  friend,  I'll  be  bound.  I  saw  you  look  I  "  Welsh 
lowered  his  voice.  "  Now  you  see  what  I  mean 
when  I  say  that  girls  like  Ethelle  are  drained  of  sex, 
that  they're  not  bound  by  the  usual  sex  conventions. 
Ethelle  feels  antagonism,  she  responds  to  her  emo- 
tion, she  sets  it  free.  The  presence  of  men  doesn't 
matter.  No  restraint,  no  Inhibition,  none  of  the 
usual  female  taboos.  My  girl  would  fight  tooth  and 
nail  in  the  market  place.  None  of  the  usual  Indirect 
attacks.  And  why  not?  She  has  nothing  to  lose, 
she  has  no  one  to  keep.  The  fascination  of  that! 
The  appeal  of  those  who  have  nothing  to  lose  I  " 

"  She  didn't  like  crying,  all  the  same." 

"  Ah,  no,  I'm  glad  she  didn't."  Welsh  ignored 
the  Implied  criticism  of  his  theory.  "  But  where  is 
Madame?"  His  expression  changed.  "Where 
are  my  eggs?     Port?     Port?     My  dear  Tom,  my 


I'he  Buffoo7i  261 

dear  friend,  would  you  wish  me  to  take  Port?  How 
horribly  I  should  suffer !  Even  claret  is  cancerous  to 
me.  No,  I  don't  think  I  will  take  chicken.  No,  I 
reject  chicken  to-night.  On  these  occasions  I  prefer, 
I  really  prefer,  to  be  hungry.     I  worship  fasting." 

"  By  Jove,"  said  Fielding  with  a  chuckle,  "  I  don't. 
And  physiologically  I'm  sure  you're  wrong." 

"  What's  that,  Tom?  "  Rosa  inquired.  ''  Some- 
thing naughty,  I'll  be  bcwnd." 

"  Venus  takes  cold  without  Ceres  and  Bacchus," 
Edward  was  explaining  as  Madame  reappeared  with 
the  eggs  in  a  paper  bag. 

Welsh  leapt  to  his  feet,  snatched  the  bag,  and  be- 
gan breaking  the  eggs  into  a  glass.  "  Admirable !  " 
he  cried.  "I  am  grateful  to  you  forever!"  He 
gulped  an  egg  down,  with  large  display  of  his  throat, 
broke  another  immediately,  gulped  that,  and  then, 
in  rapid  succession,  broke  a  third.  Rosa  and  Betty 
watched  him,  fascinated.  So  did  Madame,  speech- 
less for  once.  His  red,  moist,  absorbent,  palpitat- 
ing gullet  reminded  Edward  of  a  tinted  jellyfish. 
Ethelle  returned  as  the  fourth  egg  was  slipping  down 
that  distended  animal  cavity. 

"  My  Lord!  "  she  cried.  "  Don't  do  that!  It 
turns  me  stummick." 

Welsh  gasped.  He  sat  down,  with  very  visible 
satisfaction. 

"  It's  all  right  now,"  said  Edward.  "  He's  fin- 
ished. The  primeval  egoist  has  completed  his  meal. 
Most  interesting,  my  dear  friend,  most  interesting. 


262  The  Buffoon 

Your  individualism  is  remarkable."  Drinking  his 
Chambertin  unawares,  he  made  a  wry  face.  "  And 
now,"  he  went  on,  "  after  this  little  aperitif,  we  can 
really  enjoy  our  supper." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  Port  wine  made  a  difference  to  the  party. 
Edward  abandoned  his  Chambertin;  he 
found  that  the  other  fluid  was  easier  to 
drink,  even  pleasant  after  the  first  tumbler:  but,  con- 
scious that  he  had  Betty,  he  made  the  second  last 
some  time.  Welsh  persisted  in  abstaining,  but  he 
had  never  any  need  of  such  stimulus.  Fielding 
showed  himself  a  gradual,  steady  drinker;  he  was 
safe  with  his  glass,  on  a  good  understanding  with  his 
liquor.  Their  companions  reacted,  of  course,  much 
more  rapidly  to  the  wine. 

"  Ah,  ha !  "  Welsh  had  cried  delightedly,  after  a 
remark  from  Betty,  "  the  edges  of  that  speech  are  a 
little  blurred !  "  And  so  they  were.  Betty  blushed 
and  smiled ;  she  shyly  sipped  her  Port  again.  "  How 
I  wish,"  Welsh  continued,  "  that  I  could  see  you 
with  your  mother!  Can't  you  imagine,  Edward, 
how  her  mother  would  arrange  her,  and  manage 
her  hair,  and  lace  her  little  garments?  Could  any- 
thing be  more  provocative?  A  mother  preparing 
her  child !     What  a  picture !  " 

Edward  applauded.  He  stroked  Betty's  hand  as 
it  lay  on  the  table. 

"  Does  one's  'eart  good  to  see  young  people  'appy 
263 


264  The  Buffoon 


together,  don't  it?"  Ethelle  eyed  them  sentimen- 
tally, almost  as  if  she  herself  had  been  Betty's 
mother.  The  wine  had  lulled  her.  "  Oh,  boys," 
she  had  observed,  "  I'm  full  of  booze  and  benevo- 
lence," which  was  quite  true.  "  And  we're  all  'appy 
together,  ain't  we?  "  she  had  gone  on. 

After  supper  they  all,  unintentionally  as  it  were, 
without  any  discussion,  went  up  to  Welsh's  bedroom. 
It  was  large,  and  had  a  blazing  fire.  Welsh,  who 
could  never  be  warm  enough,  had  insisted  on  that. 
No  one  lit  the  gas.  The  fire-light  threw  grotesque 
shadows  about  the  room;  it  gave  every  object  a  char- 
acter of  ambiguity.  The  large  mid-Victorian  four- 
poster  bed,  with  its  heavy  canopy,  projected  a  per- 
sonal influence  upon  the  company,  an  influence  hint- 
ing something  unlooked  for  and  secret.  'The  bed 
seemed  to  be  in  waiting,  seemed  to  be  prepared  for 
a  future  that  it  knew.  In  its  withdrawn  vigilance 
and  secure  prescience  it  compelled  the  absurd  fancy 
of  a  superiority  to  human  beings.  There  was  some- 
thing infallible  about  it,  an  infallibility  that  accen- 
tuated the  dubious  lives  of  men  and  women.  It  was 
ambiguous  for  others,  but  certain  of  itself,  like  Fate. 
Edward  could  understand  the  worship  of  idols. 

No  one  could  evade  the  consciousness  of  the  bed, 
but  the  instinct  to  disregard  it,  to  behave  as  though  it 
were  not  there,  was  irresistible.  The  room,  for  all 
of  them,  so  far  as  conduct  went,  ended  where  the  bed 
began.  The  region  of  the  bed  took  up  its  place  in 
the  backs  of  their  minds,  well  marked  off  from  ma- 


The  Buffoo?i  265 

terial  recognition.  No  one  admitted  the  change  of 
mood:  they  talked  and  laughed  as  before,  but  now 
they  heard  themselves  talking  and  laughing. 

Fielding  and  Rosa  had  led  the  drifting  procession 
upstairs,  and  Fielding  at  once  sat  down  near  the  fire. 
He  placed  his  glass  on  the  coal  scuttle,  then  slowly 
took  a  cigarette  from  a  cardboard  box.  Rosa  went 
with  a  fling  to  the  dressing-table,  and  began  to  give 
little  touches  to  her  hair.  Edward,  with  his  hand 
under  Betty's  arm,  followed,  and  after  them  came 
Welsh  and  Ethelle.  Betty  fluttered  from  Edward, 
Ethelle  also  took  to  hovering  about  the  room,  while 
Edward  and  Welsh  stood  by  the  mantelpiece,  watch- 
ing the  three  girls  and  their  shadows,  flitting  and 
wavering  here  and  there.  Betty  kept  fingering  and 
examining  various  little  objects  on  the  dressing-table 
and  the  chest  of  drawers,  with  exclamation  and 
query :  "  Well,  what's  this  old  thing  for,  I  won- 
der?" "Look  at  gran'pa's  shaving  paper!" 
"  Here's  Aunt  Maria's  box  of  pins !  "  She  laughed, 
and  so  did  the  other  two.  Ethelle  produced  her 
powder-puff  and  her  lip-salve,  she  gave  little  dabs  to 
her  cheeks  and  mouth.  Rosa  endeavoured  for  a 
satisfying  view  of  her  full  length  in  the  mirror ;  she 
advanced,  withdrew,  posed,  made  a  noise  with  her 
tongue  against  her  teeth,  exclaimed  that  it  was  a 
funny  kind  of  a  light.  Then  they  all  three  laughed 
again.  The  men  did  not  speak  to  them;  they  were 
giving  them  time  to  settle,  treating  them  as  if  they 
were  birds  about  to  be  fed.     Welsh  curled  himself 


266  The  Buffoon 


up  on  the  floor,  almost  in  the  fender,  in  a  position 
that  looked  extremely  uncomfortable.  Edward 
stood,  wondering  when  and  where  Betty  would  sit 
down. 

"  As  for  this  problem  of  Poverty,"  Fielding  was 
saying,  "  for  every  one  who  died  of  starvation  I'd 
hang  a  millionaire.  And  when  the  millionaires  were 
finished  I'd  start  on  the  bishops.  You  wouldn't  hear 
so  much  about  Poverty  then." 

"  That's  right !  "  declared  Welsh.  "  To  the  guil- 
lotine  with  the  aristocrats  I     Splendid !  " 

"Splendid!"  Edward  echoed  listlessly,  his  eyes 
still  on  Betty. 

"  The  trouble  with  the  Labour  Party,"  Fielding 
went  on,  "  is  simply  that  they  haven't  a  man  amongst 
them.  A  set  of  eunuchs.  One  silly  fad  after  an- 
other.    Teetotalism,  Peace-at-any-price,  Feminism." 

Edward  was  looking  carefully  at  Betty,  who  had 
just  sat  down  on  a  high  chest,  a  kind  of  sea-chest, 
opposite  him.  Her  legs  did  not  reach  the  floor. 
Rosa  took  a  chair  near  Fielding,  and  began  to  ap- 
pear to  listen  to  what  he  was  saying.  Ethelle  moved 
a  dilapidated  stool  towards  Welsh.  She  sat  on  it, 
stroked  his  hair  and  whispered  him.  But  they  none 
of  them  gave  the  impression  of  being  settled:  they 
had  perched,  that  was  all. 

Welsh  took  Ethelle's  hand.  "  Of  course,  Tom," 
he  remarked  abstractedly,  "  we  know  your  irrecon- 
cilable hatred  of  Socialism." 

"  Not  at  all.     I  wish  them  success,  far  more  sue- 


The  Buffoon  267 

cess  than  they've  had.  Individualism  needs  a  strong 
opposition.  These  Socialists  haven't  any  guts,  worse 
luck.  Why,  Shaw  himself  Is  only  a  Nonconformist 
parson,  a  sort  of  R.  J.  Campbell  moral  idealist, 
when  you  get  far  enough  down  In  him,  and  he's  the 
pick  of  the  lot.  But  the  Sidney  Webbs,  and  Ramsay 
Macdonald!  Not  a  single  idea  with  any  sap  in  it. 
It  makes  me  thirsty  to  think  of  them." 

"  The  Socialists,"  Edward  put  In,  "  have  achieved 
the  least  engaging  qualities  of  spinsterhood.  Un- 
conscious imitation  of  their  pets,  the  Suffragettes." 

"  That's  the  clearest  symptom  of  our  degeneracy, 
this  Feminist  movement.  When  men  become  effem- 
inate, women  want  the  vote." 

"  Suffragettes !  "  exclaimed  Ethelle.  "  I  'eard 
one  of  'em  spoutin'  away  up  at  Shiel  Park  the  other 
day,  an'  I  shouted  at  'er  to  'old  'er  bloomin'  jaw. 
Silly  owl!" 

"  All  she  wanted  was  a  boy,"  remarked  Fielding. 

"Ah,  Tom!"  Welsh  reproached  him.  "These 
formulae  of  yours  for  the  female  sex!  " 

"  Wanted  a  boy !  She  got  one,  quick  enough." 
Ethelle's  Port  had  relaxed  her.  "  Young  feller,  nice 
big  young  feller,  what  had  been  takin'  'is  bit.  'E 
come  up  to  'er,  an'  'e  says :  '  Now  then,  you  git 
down.  You  ain't  got  no  modesty,'  'e  says,  '  goin'  on 
that  way  in  public,  'ussy ! ' —  Jus'  what  I  think. — 
An'  'e  takes  'er  round  the  waist,  an'  they  all  laughed. 
A  little  bony  scrap  she  was,  an'  not  thinkin'  of  nothin' 
but  yellln'  votes.     You  bet  your  life  I  wouldn'  lose  a 


268  The  Buffoon 

chance  like  that  with  a  fine  big  feller  like  'im.  So  I 
squeeze  meself  up  to  them,  and  I  says:  '  You  great 
big  fat  beggar,'  I  says,  'you  let  that  lady  alone! ' 
An'  'e  says, —  of  course  'e  was  a  bit  boozy  — 'e 
says :  '  I  ain't  pertickler,  an'  I  will  say  you  look  a 
nice  little  piece  o'  goods  fer  a  feller  to  'andle.'  Jus' 
like  that  'e  says :  '  You  do  look  a  nice  piece  o' 
goods  fer  a  feller  to  'andle.'  Oh,  'e  was  a  bit 
boozy.  We  'ad  a  gran'  time  together,  an'  for  some 
time  I  met  'im  reg'lar.  An'  that  woman  'owlin'  for 
votes.  What's  the  good  of  a  bloomin'  vote?  Dear 
'earti" 

She  sat  down  by  Welsh  on  the  hearthrug.  They 
were  silent.  The  fire  was  dying  down.  The 
shadows  flickered  more  and  more  spasmodically,  the 
bed  seemed  to  float  like  a  thing  of  a  dusky  dream, 
in  an  alien  distance,  less  and  less  discoverable.  Ed- 
ward began  to  realise  that  they  were  there  almost  in 
the  dark.  The  tobacco  smoke  was  thickening,  it 
hung  poised  in  the  air, —  bluish  clouds.  Betty,  at 
her  timed  moment,  left  the  chest  and  sat  down  on  a 
small  ragged  sofa  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  at  the 
foot  of  the  four-poster.  Edward  went  to  her. 
They  were  out  of  the  direct  view  of  the  others 
there;  they  took  many  caresses.  He  put  both  his 
hands  behind  her  head  and  pressed  her  face  to  his: 
he  kissed  her  relaxed  mouth  and  her  warm  neck. 
She  was  basking  like  a  cat,  perfectly  placid.  She 
was  sating  herself,  he  felt;  her  appetite  was  obvious, 


The  Buffoon  269 

animal.  Did  he  like  that?  He  looked  at  Rosa. 
Fielding's  arm  was  round  her;  she  too  gave  the  im- 
pression of  feline  purring  satisfaction.  No,  he 
didn't  like  it;  it  was  too  cushiony.  Edward  began  to 
feel  as  if  he  were  in  a  fauteuil  of  yielding  plush,  be- 
fore an  empty  stage.  It  was  no  good,  he  reflected, 
getting  one  thing  by  itself.  "  Children  of  nature !  " 
Yes,  but  Nature  gave  you  more  than  this,  if  you 
played  properly  up  to  her.  What  Edward  wanted 
was  the  physical  and  something  more, —  something 
fused,  something  transforming,  something  that  would 
throw  physical  sensation  into  fresh  moulds.  He 
kissed  Betty  again.  No,  it  would  not  do ;  he  had  ex- 
hausted that. —  How  curious  that  Betty's  parents 
should  believe  in  these  occasional  visits  of  hers  to  a 
girl-friend.  Parents  were  extraordinary,  parents 
were  always  fools,  quite  unintelligent  about  their  own 
children.  He  knew  more  about  Betty  than  her 
father  did,  he  was  sure  .  .  .  more  than  her  mother? 
Well,  no,  perhaps  her  mother  knew  a  good  deal,  and 
kept  account.  That  would  be  very  maternal.  He 
looked  at  Welsh,  Welsh  sitting  there  on  the  hearth- 
rug, with  one  leg  ludicrously  outstretched,  with  one 
hand  tentatively  stroking  Ethelle's  neck,  as  he  might 
have  stroked  a  strange  cat  whom  he  wished  to  keep  in 
humour  but  of  whom  he  was  not  quite  sure.  Welsh's 
mood  had  evidently  changed.  He  looked  as  though 
he  were  striving  very  conscientiously  towards  his 
part,  as  though  he  were  keeping  carefully  in  mind 


270  The  Buffoon 

Casanova  and  the  Marquis  de  Sade.     "  Come,  help^ 
me,  spirits  of  my  wicked  mood !  "     But  after  awhile 
he  withdrew  his  wicked  hand  in  despair. 

"  I  must  introduce  you,"  he  said  to  Ethelle,  by  way 
of  making  amends;  "I  must  introduce  you  to  my 
brother  Lulu.  You  would  like  him;  he  is  young,  he 
is  handsome.  He  knows  how  to  treat  girls.  I 
can't,  you  know,  but  — " 

"Dear  'eart!  When  I  don't  want  nobody  but 
you."  But  her  tone  was  unconvincing.  "  Oh,  'ow 
I  wish  you'd  say  some  of  your  beautiful  poetry!  " 

Welsh  closed  his  eyes,  drew  in  his  underlip,  and 
pressed  his  teeth  upon  it.  He  seized  the  girl  by  the 
shoulders,  opened  his  eyes  and  fixed  them  upon  her. 
"  '  Now,'  "  he  whispered  hoarsely,  "  '  now  —  o'er 
the  one  half  world.  Nature  lies  dead,  and  wicked 
dreams  abuse  The  curtain'd  sleep.'  "  He  shud- 
dered, and  Ethelle  began  to  enjoy  her  thrills. 
"  '  Witchcraft  celebrates  — '  "  he  went  on  with  the 
passage.  Edward  thought  he  had  never  heard  it 
more  effectively  done,  Welsh  had  shown  an  artist's 
sense  in  choosing  it  for  that  particular  moment  in 
that  particular  place.  Instinctively  Edward  re- 
leased Betty's  hand.  .  .  .  "  '  And  withered  mur- 
der .  .  .'  "  Ethelle  gasped,  trembled,  gave  a  lit- 
tle cry.  "  '.  .  .  whose  howl's  his  watch.  .  .  .'  " 
When  Welsh  had  finished,  the  girl  clutched  him, 
pressed  her  face  to  his  shoulder,  wept  violently, 
shook  from  head  to  foot. 

Welsh  derived  much  satisfaction  from  this  display. 


rhe  Buffoon  271 

"  You  see,"  he  exclaimed  triumphantly,  "  how  mor- 
bid her  nerves  are !  Ah,  I  like  that.  '  Howl,  howl, 
howl,  howl !     Oh,  you  are  men  of  stone !  '  " 

Ethelle  dried  her  eyes.  "  I  wasn't  'owlin',''  she 
said  indignantly,  and  sat  up  straight. 

"  Let's  turn  the  gas  on,"  said  Rosa. 

*'  It's  wonderful.  Jack,"  said  Fielding.  "  Mac- 
beth is  the  finest  of  the  lot." 

Edward  glanced  at  Betty.  She  was  not  affected 
in  the  least.  He  felt  angry.  This  absorption  with 
sex  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other  emotions!  How 
dull  Betty  would  be  when  she  had  lost  her  youth! 
But  really  she  was  dull  now.  Fielding  was  wrong 
about  Feminism.  The  Feminists  were  out  for  a 
right  end,  at  least,  for  all  their  stupidities.  The  old 
way  of  treating  women  had  simply  decivilised  them, 
made  them  impossible  companions. 

"Ah!"  cried  Welsh  suddenly,  "when  you  cry, 
my  little  Sonia,  I  have  unpardonable  longings !  " 
Ethelle  was  interested  at  once;  she  gazed  at  him  ro- 
mantically. "  That  is  the  provocation  that  I  can 
never  resist!  " 

"  The  kindest  'eart  that  ever  was,"  she  sobbed  pa- 
thetically. 

"  But  suppose  —  suppose  that  when  we  meet 
again,  you  find  me  changed.  Changed!  With  all 
the  evil  wishes  of  years  hung  withered  like  a  row  of 
little  vicious  wind-dried  weasels  —  on  the  park-pal- 
ings of  my  noble  mind !  We  grow  old  and  good,  my 
Sonia,    old   and   good. —     But   when   your   mouth 


272  The  Buffoon 

trembles  like  that  —  oh,  the  Infernal  provocation  of 
just  that  kind  of  tremor!  No,  no,  I  won't  think  of 
these  things !  I  must  not  think  of  them !  "  He 
closed  his  eyes,  and  his  jaw  familiarly  dropped. 

Edward's  spleen  was  stirred.  What  a  sensation- 
alist, he  thought,  what  a  gross  glutton!  The  man's 
greed  of  his  sensations,  the  laboured  and  Inept  way  in 
which  he  got  hold  of  them  and  mauled  them  and 
messed  them  about!  No  doubt  by  his  imagination 
he  could  make  any  material  serve;  he  kept  free  from 
disillusions  and  discontents  that  vexed  Edward,  but 
the  price  he  paid  was  too  heavy.  Yes,  Welsh  was 
really  corrupt,  though  Reggie  Tryers  could  never 
have  analysed  his  corruption. 

"  And,"  Welsh  continued,  with  a  sinister  premoni- 
tory emphasis,  fixedly  regarding  the  girl,  "  I  will  not 
allow  you  to  have  wicked  thoughts  either !  We  must 
dream  together  of  large  mild  moons,  oh,  so  mild  and 
large!  Come,  take  more  wine,  that  you  may  sleep 
better. —  Sleep  and  sleep  on,  my  child.  I  am  not 
my  brother  Lulu." 

Fielding  was  talking  to  Edward,  explaining  the 
superiority  of  girls  who  were  not  particularly  pretty 
over  girls  who  were.  Pretty  girls,  he  said,  were  not 
only  spoilt  and  difficult  and  uncertain,  but  they  were 
given  to  occupation  with  side-issues.  They  diffused 
their  energies  In  harmless  flirtations,  whereas  the 
others,  chosen  by  few,  surrendered  themselves  with 
concentrated  energy  when  the  time  came.  Those  in- 
numerable arrieres-pensees  of  the  pretty  girl  were. 


The  Buffoon  273 

so  Fielding  found,  extremely  irritating  and  wasteful 
of  one's  time.  Edward  acknowledged  the  justice  of 
these  remarks,  and  was  amused  by  the  complete  dis- 
regard of  them  shown  by  Betty  and  Rosa,  who  evi- 
dently supposed  this  to  be  one  of  those  abstract  dis- 
cussions that  men  were  in  the  habit  of  taking  with 
their  tobacco,  and  with  which  they  themselves  had 
nothing  to  do.  .  .  .  How  bound  in  all  women  were 
by  the  triple  brass  of  their  particular  codes,  how  they 
behaved  always  according  to  rule,  whether  they  were 
adulteresses  or  whether  they  were  not! —  Betty 
chattered  according  to  code,  played  her  game  of  sex 
according  to  code,  fitted  herself  in,  just  like  any  of  the 
rest.  If  only  he  could  find  an  independent  spirit 
somewhere,  in  some  girl's  body  !  Eunice  —  surely 
In  some  one  or  two  or  three  of  those  looks  of  Eunice 
—  surely  there  might  be  something  there,  something 
of  what  he  wanted. 

The  time  went  on.  Welsh  talked  a  great  deal,  he 
enjoyed  himself,  he  made  a  teUing  impression  on 
Ethelle,  whom  he  attracted  and  repelled,  frightened 
and  charmed,  after  his  will.  "  Daughter  of  Baby- 
lon !  Wasted  with  desire.  In  whom  desire  Is 
wasted!  "  Welsh  apostrophised  her  In  this  kind  of 
way,  and  she  responded  well  to  all  his  dramatic  hits, 
trembling,  averting  her  face,  raising  her  hands,  giv- 
ing little  cries.  Edward  was  reminded  of  Eunice. 
"  A  similar  type,"  he  thought. 

Fielding  observed  the  spectacle  from  time  to  time 
with  fluctuating  Interest.     "  Well,"  he  said  at  last  to 


274  The  Buffoon 

Rosa,  "  it's  about  time  you  and  Betty  went  to  bed, 
eh?  Let's  show  them  to  their  room."  He  turned 
to  Edward. 

"Good  night!  Good  night!"  Welsh  cried  to 
them  as  they  prepared  to  go.  "  Drink  more  wine, 
Sonia,  more  wine  !  We  are  left  alone,  and  you  must 
sleep.  Drink  that  you  may  sleep !  '  Good  night, 
good  sleep,  good  rest  from  sorrow,  to  her  that  shall 
not  know  good  morrow !  '  "  He  made  another  of 
his  alarming  grimaces. 

"  Oh,  Jack!  "  the  girl  wailed,  "  you  will  be  good 
to  me,  won't  you?  " 

She  seemed  on  the  point  of  complete  collapse,  her 
face  twitched,  she  closed  her  eyes,  and  Edward  noted 
the  throbbing  of  her  darkened  eyeballs.  Yes,  Welsh 
had  fairly  worked  her  up;  he  had  drawn  off,  well 
enough,  those  outer  skins  of  her  susceptibilities. 
Well,  it  was  a  night  she  could  remember.  "  You 
will  be  good  to  me?  "  Was  that  pathetic,  or  senti- 
mental? Partly  the  one,  no  doubt,  partly  the  other. 
That  was  the  cursed  way  with  everything:  everything 
was  partly  something  and  partly  something  else. 
Eunice  and  Ethelle  ... 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

WHEN  they  reached  the  girls'  bedroom 
Fielding  suggested  that  Rosa  should 
come  and  have  a  look  at  his,  to  see  that 
he  was  comfortable.  Edward,  left  alone  with  Betty, 
played  up  to  this  pretence  of  propriety. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  they  seem  to  be  staying  a  long 
time,  don't  they?  We  can't  very  well  disturb  them, 
though,  I  suppose,  what?" 

"  But  we  ought  to,  don't  you  think?  " 

"  Oh,  but  we  can't.  It  wouldn't  do ;  we  don't 
know  them  well  enough." 

A  conversation  to  precisely  the  same  effect  was  no 
doubt  going  on  at  the  same  time  in  the  other  room. 
It  was  a  device,  quite  in  accordance  with  code,  to 
save  their  faces,  more  or  less,  when  they  met  at 
breakfast  next  morning. 

"  What  do  you  think?  "  Betty  put  her  hand  on 
Edward's  knee.  "  That  Madam  Weiss,  she's  a 
proper  tricky  one.  What  do  you  think  she  said  to 
me  the  other  day?  " 

"  Well?  "  Edward  listened  idly. 

"  Well,  she  asked  me,  last  time  I  was  here  with 
you,  you  know,  to  look  in  and  have  a  cup  of  tea  some 
Wednesday  when  I  had  a  half  day.  So  I  came 
round  once  or  twice;  very  nice,  she  was,  gave  me  a 

275 


276  The  Buffoon 

little  brooch  and  a  hand-bag.  I  was  here  to  see  her 
last  Wednesday,  but  I'm  not  having  tea  with  her 
again,  no,  thank  you !  "  She  tossed  her  head  and 
waited  for  Edward  to  speak.  His  thoughts  had 
wandered,  he  said  nothing,  but  kissed  her  absently, 
realising  that  something  was  expected  of  him.  "  She 
got  up  to  her  games  with  me !  Nasty-minded  old 
toad,  that's  what  she  is !  Wanted  to  know  if  I 
wouldn't  like  to  meet  a  nice  gentleman-friend  of  hers, 
a  proper  generous  gentleman  what'd  give  me  lots  of 
presents  if  I  was  kind  to  him  —  kind  to  him,  the  old 
toad!  And  not  very  old,  either,  she  said.  Impu- 
dence !  " 

"My  dear  Betty!  How  perfectly  scandalous! 
I'll  give  it  to  Madam  Weiss  for  this,  you'll  see. 
She  shall  hear  about  it.  Confound  the  woman! 
What  the  devil  does  she  mean  ?  " 

Edward  was  indignant,  and  amused  the  next  mo- 
ment by  his  indignation.  After  all,  if  Madame  had 
found  him  a  girl  like  Betty  in  that  kind  of  way, — 
well,  he  would  probably  have  rejected  the  offer,  be- 
cause he  preferred  to  find  girls  for  himself;  he  didn't 
like  them  passed  on:  but  it  would  never  have  oc- 
curred to  him  to  be  indignant.  He  might  have  re- 
flected that  in  twenty  years'  time  there  would  be 
something  to  be  said  for  such  mediation.  But  Betty 
was  his  girl,  so  he  revolted  from  the  spectacle  of 
senile  lust  dependent  on  the  procuress.  Yet  no 
doubt  that  was  the  spectacle  which  he  himself  was 
destined  to  present,  in  that  interesting  future  period 


The  Buffoon  211 

when  girls  like  Betty  would  no  longer  have  anything 
to  do  with  him,  when  he  would  have  to  fall  back  on 
the  usual  ministers  to  flaccid  appetites.  Thirty-five 
already!  Edward  was  filled  with  dominating  envy 
of  Betty's  youth.  Eighteen  was  she  now,  or  nine- 
teen? Anyhow  in  ten  years'  time  she  would  still  be 
under  thirty,  in  ten  years  she  would  be  of  an  age  that 
he  envied  now.  What  a  monstrous  inequality! 
Edward  smiled  at  his  irrational  egoism,  but  his  en- 
vious ruminations  could  not  be  checked.  He  thought 
of  the  possibilities  of  youth;  one  after  another  they 
occurred  to  his  suffering  mind.  He  no  longer  heard 
what  Betty  was  saying;  it  was  with  an  effort  that  he 
brought  himself  to  her.  Long  after  she  had  gone  to 
sleep,  he  was  wakeful.  Certain  details  had  repelled 
him  extremely.  Why  had  he  contracted  this  morbid 
aesthetic  infection? 

Edward  thought  of  Tryers,  of  how  Tryers  pro- 
fessed himself  tormented  by  his  desires.  No  doubt 
Tryers  was  sincere  to  a  certain  extent,  no  doubt  he 
was  driven  to  religion  for  self-preservation,  just  as 
Edward  himself  might  be  driven  to  marriage.  Then 
there  was  George.  George  got  out  of  it  by  perpet- 
ual useless  activities.  It  was  absurd.  Was  there  no 
way  of  leading  a  happy  equable  life?  Must  one 
either  be  converted  or  tread  the  mill  ?  The  fact  was, 
to  hve  happily  one  had  either  to  be  commonplace  or 
a  genius,  and  generally  one  didn't  live  happily  even 
then.  Of  course  he  had  managed  his  own  life  fairly 
well,  he  had  kept  clear  of  vexations,  he  had  enjoyed 


278  The  Buffoon 

himself,  he  had  been,  so  he  thought,  on  the  winning 
side,  but  he  was  beaten  now.  He  was  suffering  the 
fate,  a  httle  belated,  perhaps,  of  the  mid-way  man. 
A  mid-way  man,  disturbingly  near  middle  age !  A 
man  whose  mania  for  thinking  himself  happy  was 
breaking  down.  Yet  he  had  been  happy,  he  sup- 
posed; he  had  been  gay,  nonchalant,  and  enviable, 
determined  to  be  so  forever.  The  flaw  lay,  no 
doubt,  in  that  very  determination. 

Now,  all  interests  were  fading.  .  .  .  Edward 
was  quite  certain  that  he  had  no  genius,  and  that  his 
youth  was  over:  certain,  too,  that  the  usual  consola- 
tions of  mediocrity  and  middle  age  could  not  serve 
him,  that  he  could  never  be  a  clubman  or  a  golfer, 
or  keep  a  small  yacht,  or  go  in  for  politics  or  the 
Turf.  All  this  would  not  matter  (his  thoughts  de- 
scribed their  circle)  if  only  he  could  live  as  he  had 
lived  before.  Five  or  six  years  ago  he  was  all  right, 
with  his  money  and  his  leisure  and  his  amusements 
and  his  temperament,  and  since  then  he  had  been  as- 
sailed by  doubts  and  discontents  only  occasionally, 
hardly  realising  the  change  at  first, —  but  the  change 
had  worked  Its  way.  He  had  to  realise  it  now:  the 
last  few  days  had  made  the  revelation  quite  clear. 
Some  kind  of  a  reconstruction  was  necessary,  though 
he  had  always  laughed  at  reconstructions,  and  said 
that  they  made  no  difference. 

No  matter  ...  he  would  strike  out  somehow,  he 
would  not  submit  to  humiliation.     Impossible  to  be 


rhe  Buffoon  279 

humiliated,  if  only  one  took  things  lightly  enough. 
That  was  what  he  would  do.  He  would  take  the 
gravest  possible  steps  in  the  lightest  possible 
spirit.  ...  At  last  he  soothed  himself  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

EUNICE  played  tennis  well,  and  Edward,  be- 
ing out  of  practice,  wa  sonly  just  her  match. 
They  hardly  talked  at  all,  except  of  the 
game.  When  she  was  actually  playing,  Edward  no- 
ticed, her  body's  gestures  were  normal,  but  she  did 
not  stoop  naturally  in  picking  up  an  occasional  ball, 
and  when  walking  about  the  court  she  certainly 
posed.  As  soon  as  her  energies  were  released  from 
the  game,  she  became  once  more  the  Divinity  of 
Raoul  Root's  circle.  However,  she  stood  daylight 
well.  She  was  rather  paler  than  Edward  had 
thought,  but  her  skin  was  clear,  healthy.  How  old 
was  she?  Twenty-five?  Twenty-seven?  Perhaps 
only  twenty- four?  He  was  not  sorry  to  reflect  that 
she  was  certainly  older  than  Betty. 

He  looked  at  her,  at  first,  a  great  deal:  he  was 
always  looking  at  her,  he  lost  four  games  running. 
The  simple  grey  skirt  and  white  blouse  made  a 
stronger  appeal  to  his  senses  than  her  studied  attire 
of  three  nights  before.  She  was  too  much  got  up  for 
a  goddess,  then :  and  besides,  Edward  was  always  at- 
tracted by  simple  clothes,  he  liked  a  girl  to  be  dressed 
so  that  she  could  strip  as  easily  and  as  quickly  as  a 
boy.     Eunice,  as  she  was  then,  could  have  stripped  in 

280 


rhe  Buffoon  281 

a  moment.  Edward  missed  an  easy  stroke,  and 
vowed  he  would  begin  to  play  tennis. 

With  great  difficulty  but  increasing  self-command 
he  won  three  games,  each  after  a  deuce  score  and 
several  Vantages;  but  Eunice  won  the  fourth,  In 
spite  of  his  efforts.  She  was  flushed  now,  most  be- 
comingly, but  Edward  would  not  look  at  her.  The 
score  was  5-3  against  him.  They  played  for  nearly 
an  hour  longer,  deuce  and  'vantage,  and  at  last  he 
won. 

"  Will  you  come  to  tea  with  me?  "  she  said,  pant- 
ing from  her  exertion.  "  I  live  with  my  cousins  — 
in  Earl's  Court." 

"  That  depends  — "     Edward  began. 

"  On  what?  "  She  turned  to  him,  still  breathing 
quickly.     He  felt  her  breath. 

"Will  you  marry  me?"  He  should  not  have 
spoken  excitedly,  but  he  couldn't  help  it. 

She  did  not  quiver  or  droop,  she  was  particularly 
erect,  and  her  regard  was  one  of  genuine  amazement. 

"  But  I'm  not  In  the  least  —  prepared  .   .   ." 

Edward's  gaze  was  upon  her.  Suddenly  she 
turned  from  him  with  an  affrighted  gesture;  her 
whole  body  became  tremulous,  on  purpose.  The 
Divinity  had  had  time  to  recover  herself. 

Edward  knew  quite  well  what  he  was  expected  to 
say.  "You  timid  wild-wood  thing!  Why  did  I 
catch  at  your  wings  so  roughly?" — something  of 
that  kind.     But  he  was  silent. 

Eunice    continued   to    tremble.     "  You    frighten 


282  The  Buffoon 

me,"  she  said  at  last.  Her  face  was  still  turned 
from  him. 

"  Tell  me,"  Edward  insisted,  "  will  you  marry  me 
or  not?" 

"Oh  — no  — no,—     How  could  I  .  .  .?" 

"  Well,  let's  walk  together  and  talk  it  over." 
Edward  was  able  now  to  disguise  his  excitement. 

Eunice  went  with  him,  "  moving  as  one  in  a 
dream."  No  doubt  this  too  was  taught  in  "  Learn 
from  the  Swan."  How  much  he  would  have  to 
change  her !  All  the  better,  all  the  more  interesting, 
so  much  the  more  zest. 

"  You  are  not  going  to  marry  Raoul  Root,  or 
Massington,  are  you?  " 

"Oh,  no  —  no."  Her  tones  shimmered  as 
though  speech  might  have  broken  them,  they  were  so 
fragile. 

"  Then  you  are  very  wise.  Life  with  them  would 
be  the  life  you  know,  the  life  you  are  tired  of.  You 
are  tired  of  it,  aren't  you?  " 

"Tired?"  For  the  first  time  since  her  amaze- 
ment she  looked  at  him,  and  her  eyes  were  wide. 
They  were  wet,  too,  actually  wet.  ("  Yes,"  thought 
Edward,  "  upon  my  word,  they  are  positively  starry! 
What  an  actress!  They  were  meant  to  be  starry, 
and  starry  they  are.  Amazing!  ")  "I  think,"  she 
went  on,  "  that  I  was  born  to  be  ti  —  to  be  weary," 
she  corrected  herself.  But  she  had  hardly  avoided 
the   slip.     "  Born   to   be   tired "    suggested   "  born 


The  Buffoon  283 

tired,"  which  suggested  Weary  Willies  and  the  comic 
papers. 

"  And  you're  not  going  to  marry  any  one  in 
Root's  circle?  " 

Her  lips  shaped  "no":  very  slightly  and  subtly 
she  moved  her  head. 

*'  Then  —  or  rather  in  any  case  —  I  ask  you  to 
marry  me.  I  offer  you  a  different  life,  it's  this  differ- 
ent life  that  you  need.  Don't  you  feel,  haven't  you 
often  felt,  that  in  your  present  life  you  are  thwarted, 
dragged  down?  That  you  are  marred  by  clashing 
influences?  I  feel  this,  I  know  it.  Tell  me  that  it 
is  true.   .   .  ." 

"  Your  eyes  are  clear.  You  have  vision."  She 
hesitated,  looking  shy,  very  caught  and  shy.  "  You 
have  vision, —  my  lover.     Yes,  it  is  true." 

"  Are  you  not  as  a  reed  in  the  stream,  a  reed 
dragged  down  by  other  reeds  that  twine  and  encircle 
—  too  much?  "  Edward  could  not  resist  this  figure. 
It  was  impossible  not  to  say  things  that  would  "  go 
down."  He  understood  Welsh's  lapses  on  the  plat- 
form. 

"  You  know,"  Eunice  rejoined  languorously,  after 
a  pause.     "  You  know.     I  see." 

"  I  know  always.  Will  you  believe  that  I  know 
always?"  He  was  passionate  and  masterful;  the 
right  touch,  he  felt  sure. 

"  I  beheve."  She  looked  at  him  again.  It  was 
the  "  gaze  as  of  one  hypnotised  by  power  unseen." 


284  The  Buffoon 

"  Then,"  Edward  replied  brightly,  "  you  have  ac- 
cepted me.     It  is  all  quite  settled." 

She  stopped  and  looked  on  the  ground.  An 
elderly  gentleman,  in  a  hurry  at  their  heels,  nearly 
charged  her  from  behind,  but  luckily  held  himself  up 
just  in  time.  Edward  caught  his  breath.  The  in- 
trusion of  open  burlesque  at  that  moment  might  have 
spoilt  everything, 

"  Have  I  ?  "  The  girl  looked  pale.  Could  she 
really  be  pale?  "How  can  I  —  dare  this  thing? 
.  .  .  Oh,  do  you  think  —  my  lover  —  that  this  is 
a  beautiful  thing  for  us  to  do?  " 

*'  Yes,"  said  Edward  simply,  "  very  beautiful. 
But  we  must  be  married  at  once,  we  must  — "  he  was 
going  to  say  "  get  a  special  licence,"  but  he  substi- 
tuted: "make  all  speed  to  the  place  of  the  cove- 
nant." 

He  felt  suddenly  that  he  wanted  tea.  Gently  he 
guided  Eunice  to  the  nearest  tea-shop.  He  found 
a  secluded  table.     She  was  trembling,  of  course. 

"  What  will  you  do-oo  with  me?  What  will  you 
do-oo?  " 

It  was  the  note  of  the  wood-dove.  For  a  sharp 
awful  moment,  Edward  felt  that  he  didn't  like  it. 
He  pulled  himself  together.  Anyhow,  he  would  get 
what  he  could  out  of  this :  and,  after  all,  didn't  this 
excess  of  pose  in  her  prove  that  she  was  malleable, 
inordinately  responsive  to  environment?  That  was 
what  he  wanted.  It  would  be  his  turn  next,  not 
Raoul    Root's.     What   satisfaction    to   be    able   to 


The  Buffoon  285 

say,  In  a  year's  time,  "  We  have  changed  all  that  " ! 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  would  do?  ...  I  would 
take  you,  as  the  player  takes  his  lovely  lute,  I  would 
wake  from  you  all  manner  of  strange  sounds  un- 
dreamed of;  the  sounds  that  are  heard  in  the  depths 
of  strange  seas, —  or  In  sacred  rivers." 

"  Ah !  "  She  rewarded  him  with  a  sigh  long- 
drawn.  He  read  an  "  encore  "  in  her  misted  eyes, 
but  he  could  not  for  the  life  of  him  keep  this  kind 
of  thing  up.  His  constructions,  he  knew,  would  get 
hopelessly  mixed  soon.     No  matter! 

"  Daughter  of  the  reeds  and  the  waters,"  he  pro- 
ceeded, "  you  shall  learn  from  my  embraces.  I  will 
bring  you  into  the  sun,  and  in  the  sun  you  shall  grow. 
The  trees  that  lean  their  branches  to  the  stream,  they 
have  been  your  lovers  till  this  hour,  they  have  cov- 
ered you,  I  beg  pardon,  they  have  protected  for  you 
the  face  of  the  waters, —  those  cool  clear  waters 
where  you  made  your  home.  But  now  —  now  —  I 
come  to  take  you.  I  break  the  shadow  of  your  trees, 
I  take  you  in  my  arms,  I  crush,  I  bruise,  I  burn,  I 
bless.  ...  I  will  show  you  all  the  secret  ways  of 
love.  ..." 

A  waiter,  with  whiskers  and  a  Victorian  counte- 
nance, appeared  with  the  tea.  "  China,  I  think  you 
said,  miss?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Edward  impatiently,  "  and  bring 
some  hot  water."     The  waiter  withdrew. 

"  You  will  not," —  Eunice  clasped  her  hands,  and 
extended  her  long  arms,  under  cover  of  the  table  — 


286  The  Buffoon 

"  you  will  not  be  untender  with  me,  my  lover?  " 
"  My  name  is  Edward.  I  should  have  told  you 
that  before.  ...  If  I  wound,  I  wound  to  heal." 
He  assumed  an  enigmatic  air.  She,  too,  looked  enig- 
matic without  loss  of  time.  They  were  enigmatic 
together. 

A  posthumous  child  of  Oscar  and  Rossetti,  Ed- 
ward reflected  as  he  gazed;  left,  so  it  had  happened, 
on  Raoul  Root's  doorstep.  She  really  belonged  to 
the  'eighties  .  .  .  no,  she  belonged  to  any  and 
every  period.  These  art-circle  women  were  always 
the  same,  just  as  little  light  o'  loves  were  always  the 
same:  they  reacted  in  the  same  way  from  the  influ- 
ence of  quite  different  men.  Their  parasitism  did 
not  vary  its  expression.  So,  when  he  took  her,  there 
might  be  no  surprises.  .  .  .  An  idea  struck  him. 

"  You  are  of  the  air,"  he  announced,  "  of  the  fire. 
Yes,  you  are  air  and  fire."  He  paused:  surely  that 
was  an  expression  of  Shakespeare's?  Yes,  of 
course;  so  much  the  better.  "  The  grosser  elements 
—  er — "  (if  only  he  could  remember!)  "  have  no 
part  in  you.  Air,  fire,  and  water, —  but  nothing  of 
earth.  Can  I  sully  so  delicate  a  spirit  by  common 
bonds,  can  I  enfeoff  it  by  the  parchment  of  the  law, 
soil  it  by — "  (What  was  that  passage  in  Richard 
II?  He  couldn't  remember.)  "Should  not  our 
union  rather  be  free?  "  He  looked  at  her;  she  gave 
him  no  encouragement.  "  Free  as  —  as  air,  in 
fact,"  he  added  lamely,  then  with  an  effort  con- 
cluded, "  free  as  the  air  that  is  your  element." 


rJie  Buffoon  287 

An  awkward  silence  followed.  Eunice  was  star- 
tled, uncomfortable,  on  her  guard. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said.  "  I  have  a  mother  in 
America." 

"  Oh,  indeed.     Of  course,  that  — " 

"  And  besides,"  the  girl  went  on  hurriedly,  with 
no  tremor  in  her  voice  now,  "  besides,  I  don't  think, 
—  no,  really  in  any  case  I  could  not  — " 

"  That's  all  right."  Edward  waved  his  hand 
generously.     "  I  shan't  refer  to  the  subject  again." 

He  felt  a  little  chilled,  all  the  same,  a  little  sub- 
dued.    Eunice  sipped  her  tea. 

"  Your  name,"  she  broke  the  silence,  "  I  have 
pleasure  in  your  name.  It  is  so  dear,  so  simple,  so 
strong.  Do  not  be  too  strong,  Edward,  do  not  make 
me  afraid, —  too  much." 

She  had  reverted  to  her  former  tone.  Edward 
was  disappointed:  she  was  too  much  on  one  note. 
He  must  cure  her  of  that. 

"  You  shall  be  born  again,"  he  replied.  "  And 
don't  you  forget  it!"  he  added  under  his  breath. 
"  In  birth,"  he  went  on  by  a  happy  inspiration, 
"  there  must  always  be  fear." 

"  The  birth  of  a  star,"  she  murmured. 

Edward  felt  it  was  time  to  pay  the  bill.  He  could 
not  keep  this  up.  This  period  of  being  engaged,  he 
began  to  foresee,  was  likely  to  be  trying.  He  had 
always  disliked  the  idea  of  being  engaged.  An  un- 
dignified equivocal  position  at  the  best.  He  must 
get    it    over    quickly.     That    special    licence  .  .  . 


288  The  Buffoon 

Meanwhile  she  would  be  busy,  he  hoped,  with  the 
usual  arrangements.  Once  they  were  married  posi- 
tions would  be  defined,  the  way  would  be  clear. 

"  You  will  begin  to-morrow,"  he  told  her,  "  to 
clothe  yourself  for  me  in  your  marriage  raiment. 
The  era  of  preparation  —  no,  not  the  era,"  he  cor- 
rected hurriedly,  "  the  month,  rather, —  the  week, — 
a  very  short  time,  anyhow, —  one  might  say  figura- 
tively the  day  or  the  hour, —  Make  your  lustra- 
tions, perform  your  final  rites.  The  hour  is  conse- 
crated. I  shall  not  intrude  upon  it.  This  is  the 
silent  hour  before  the  dawn,  and  we  must  keep 
silence, —  the  silence  of  worship.  You  under- 
stand?" 

"  Ye-es."  Her  eyes  had  narrowed  as  he  spoke, 
but  she  recovered  herself  and  made  them  large  with 
wonder. 

"  I  will  write  to  you.  When  I  have  arranged. 
In  three  weeks  from  now,  do  you  think?  " 

Eunice  reflected  for  a  moment.  "  In  rather  over 
three  weeks,"  she  replied, 

"  Very  well.  Other  details  can  wait.  A  Regis- 
try Office;  you  do  not  object  to  a  Registry  Office? 
.  .  .  That  is  settled,  then.     Waiter,  the  bill." 

The  waiter  came  up,  and  hard  at  his  heels  was 
Reggie  Tryers,  who  accosted  Eunice  with  suppressed 
excitement. 

"  Miss  Dinwiddie!  How  interesting  to  see  you 
again!  I  had  no  idea  that  you  knew  my  friend 
Raynes.     I  thought  I  recognised  you  as  we  came  in. 


rhe  Buffoon  289 

but  your  back  was  turned.  Won't  you  both  join  us 
at  our  table?  You  know  the  man  I'm  with.  Hu- 
bert Reeves,  of  Sydney." 

Eunice  gave  a  little  gasp.  "  Oh,  Hubert  Reeves." 
She  turned  to  Edward.     "  He  has  a  beautiful  spirit." 

"  You  must  come,"  Tryers  hurriedly  urged.  "  I 
am  to  build  him  a  new  church,  a  beautiful  new  church. 
He  was  speaking  only  just  now  of  that  exquisite 
altar-cloth  you  embroidered  for  him  a  couple  of 
years  ago,  when  you  were  first  in  London.  You 
must  come." 

Eunice  rose  slowly.  Was  it  Edward's  imagina- 
tion, or  did  she  really  look  like  a  figure  in  a  stained 
glass  window?  The  way  she  took  colour!  But 
why  complain?  He  valued  her  as  an  actress.  Still 
—  that  altar-cloth.  He  had  had  no  idea  that  she 
could  ever  have  embroidered  an  altar-cloth.  So 
that  was  the  former  phase.  .  .  .  He  cursed  Tryers 
and  his  Hubert  Reeves.  Hubert!  A  sacerdotal 
name;  and  Reeves  suggested  the  Sarum  use.  Why 
should  they  be  mixed  up  in  this?  Edward  followed 
Eunice ;  he  followed  his  betrothed. 

"  What's  that  you  were  saying  about  a  Registry 
Office?  "  whispered  Tryers. 

"  Go  to  the  devil!  " 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE  priest  was  a  short,  heavy,  dark  man,  with 
a  white,  plump  face,  and  loose  pouches 
bulging  under  his  conspicuous  eyes.  They 
were  eyes  that  affected  Edward  unpleasantly,  the 
eyes  of  a  successful  slave,  he  thought,  of  a  man  who 
knew  how  to  be  servile  and  dominant,  to  right  and 
to  left,  timing  his  occasions.  They  were  cold  eyes, 
grey-blue,  cold  and  large,  very  watchful,  indicating 
a  second-rate  intelligence,  rapidly  moving,  always  on 
the  alert  within  its  little  hmits.  An  obvious  affinity 
of  Tryers.  .  .  . 

When  Reeves  rose,  extending  a  slabby  hand,  Ed- 
ward was  struck  by  his  resemblance  to  a  toad. 
What  could  Eunice  be  making  of  this  mean  little 
obese  man?  Edward  looked  at  her:  she  was  evi- 
dently thinking  of  no  one  but  herself;  she  was  quite 
unconscious  of  the  repulsiveness  of  Mr.  Reeves. 
There  she  stood,  with  her  drooped  fingers,  and  her 
eyes  eloquent  of  a  thousand  unspoken  thoughts,  all 
of  them  fakes,  probably.  Edward  began  to  feel  bit- 
ter. What  fools  people  must  be,  to  make  a  priest 
of  Mr.  Reeves!  The  man  suggested  a  bun  in  its 
mould,  before  it  has  been  taken  out  and  its  edges 
clipped;    a   bun   badly   made,    a   puffed,  soggy,  bil- 

290 


The  Buffoon  291 

ious  bun.  .  .  .  An  altar-cloth, —  well !  Of  course 
Reeves  alluded  to  that  at  once. 

"  We  cannot  forget  you  in  Sydney,"  he  said. 
"  Your  offering  is  with  us  there.  My  pride  was 
great  in  bringing  it  to  our  dear  church.  So  many, 
I  know,  have  been  helped." 

He  spoke  with  subdued  resonance :  it  was  the  tone 
of  the  professed  public  speaker  conscious  of  his 
profession,  conscious  of  his  power  of  holding  in  re- 
serve the  force  of  a  voice  that  could  reach  thousands. 
Edward  disliked  him  more  and  more.  His  clerical 
manner  of  pronouncing  the  word  "  helped,"  how 
odious  that  was !  Edward  could  imagine  him  using 
the  word  again  and  again,  in  appeals  for  Church 
Work,  in  private  little  spiritual  talks,  in  meetings  for 
getting  at  young  people's  souls,  in  sermons  for  spe- 
cial occasions,  in  all  kinds  of  up-to-date  ecclesiastical 
advertisements.  How  detestable  these  modern  in- 
fluential clergy  were,  how  they  had  degenerated  from 
the  agreeable  and  harmless  mid-Victorians! 

Eunice  stood  with  bowed  head.  "  I  am  glad," 
she  repHed;  "  I  am  very  glad." 

Mr.  Reeves  waved  an  ingratiating  hand.  "  Let 
us  sit."  He  lowered  his  voice  to  an  intimate  pitch. 
It  was  just  so,  Edward  reflected,  that  he  might  ob- 
serve "  Let  us  pray  "  to  penitent  ladies  seeking  coun- 
sel in  his  study.  Tryers  regarded  his  friend  with 
marked  satisfaction. 

As  soon  as  they  sat  down  Edward  realised  sharply 
that  he  was  engaged  to  be  married  to  this  girl.     The 


292  The  Buffoon 


presence  of  the  others  curiously  emphasised  the  fact. 
Incredible  that  only  an  hour  ago  he  should  have  been 
unpledged.  Certainly  it  began  to  seem  important, 
what  he  had  done.  .  .  . 

"  I've  been  telling  Miss  Dinwiddie  of  our  new 
church,"  Tryers  was  saying.  "  Could  you  persuade 
her,  Hubert,  to  make  us  a  beautiful  Whitsun  stole? 
That's  something  we  really  need." 

"  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  able  to  persuade  Miss 
Dinwiddie  to  anything."  Mr.  Reeves  cocked  his 
head,  and  smiled.  ("Humorous  relief,"  thought 
Edward,  "judiciously  introduced:  just  as  necessary 
for  a  successful  parson  as  the  '  human  element.'  ") 
"But,"  there  began  a  telling  emphasis — "but  if 
Miss  Dinwiddie  did  make  up  her  mind  to  give  us  a 
stole,  she  might  be  able  to  persuade  me  to  accept  it." 

Edward  could  have  thrown  back  his  head  and 
howled  like  a  dog.  Eunice,  it  seemed,  had  no  such 
temptations.  She  was  smiling,  with  an  appreciation 
that  was  gracious,  a  sufficient  appreciation,  though 
non-committal  and  unstressed.  You  could  not  tell, 
to  look  at  her,  that  anything  had  jarred,  Tryers 
glanced  at  Reeves  admiringly,  congratulating  him, 
evidently,  just  as  Reeves  was  evidently  congratulat- 
ing himself. 

"  I  don't  say,  mind,"  the  priest  continued,  "  that 
you  could  get  me  to  accept  a  cope  or  a  chasuble.  No, 
no.  We  mustn't  raise  your  hopes  unduly,  my  dear 
young  lady,  we  mustn't  raise  your  hopes." 

The  last  words  gurgled  obesely  in  his  throat;  he 


The  Buffoon  293 

finished  his  sentence  with  that  kind  of  comfortable 
chuckle  that  is  intended  to  put  every  one  at  his  ease. 
Then  he  turned  to  Edward.  Clearly  he  was  afraid 
that  Edward  was  being  left  out  of  it,  that  some  tact- 
ful interposition  was  needed  to  make  Edward  feel 
himself  one  of  the  party. 

"  You  have  seen  some  of  this  wonderful  work  of 
Miss  Dinwiddle's,  I  expect,  Mr.  Raynes?  " 

"  No,  but  I  don't  doubt  that  I  shall." 

"  Oh,  yes, —  yes,  of  course  I  will  show  you,"  Eu- 
nice broke  musically  In. 

Edward  could  see  by  her  eyes  that  his  tone  had 
made  her  a  little  uneasy.  She  shifted  her  glance 
from  one  to  another.  Was  there  a  hint  of  treachery 
In  that  shifting  glance?  Edward  wondered,  half 
hearing  what  Reeves  was  saying. 

"  Oh,  you  must :  Indeed  you  must.  I  have  not 
seen  modern  work  to  match  It.  Tryers  quite  agrees 
with  me.  In  Australia,  you  know,  we  are  avid  for 
beautiful  things.  We  wish  always  to  make  them 
rather  than  to  buy, —  as  they  did  In  the  Church's 
earlier  days.  Yes,  yes, — 'm,  'm.  But  so  few  have 
the  gift  —  ah,  'm,  'm." 

"  I  am  delighted  to  know  that  Miss  Dinwiddle 
has  the  gift.  We  are  engaged  to  be  married  and  I 
have  a  passion  for  embroidered  slippers." 

Tryers  exclaimed,  but  Reeves  had  more  self-con- 
trol and  less  reason  to  be  surprised.  He  grasped 
Eunice's  hand,  his  congratulations  were  gravely  em- 
presses. 


294  The  Buffoon 


"  My  dear  Miss  Dinwiddle !  "  She  averted  her 
head,  and  her  lips  trembled.  Edward  found  her  re- 
assuringly lovely  at  that  moment.  "  My  dear  child! 
I  wish  you  all  happiness.  And  you,  Mr.  Raynes, 
happiness  is  yours  in  full  measure.  It  were  vain  to 
wish  you  more.  Allow  me  to  congratulate  you  on 
your  wow-derful  good  fortune  — " 

Edward  bowed.  Glancing  at  Tryers,  he  was  sur- 
prised by  the  spasm  of  malevolence  and  chagrin 
which  at  that  moment  overcame  the  architect's  fea- 
tures. But  Tryers  at  once  readjusted  his  expression ; 
he  followed  rapidly  on  the  priest's  cue. 

"  Our  friend  has  always  been  lucky,"  he  said,  os- 
tentatiously cordial,  "  but,  by  Jove,  he's  luckier  than 
ever  now !  I  congratulate  you  both,  heartily."  He 
shook  Eunice's  hand,  and  then  Edward's.  "  So 
this,"  he  added  with  intent,  "  was  the  meaning  of  the 
Registry  Office." 

Eunice  flushed  and  looked  vexed.  She  tapped  her 
foot.     Mr.  Reeves  straightened  himself. 

"The  Registry  Office!"  he  exclaimed,  hurt  and 
grieved.  "  Are  you  to  be  married  in  a  Registry 
Office?" 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Edward.  "  It  is  a  very 
simple  and  easy  way  to  be  married." 

"  We  are  just  two  beautiful  Greek  children.  We 
wish  to  be  simple."  Eunice  leaned  forward,  clasp- 
ing her  hands. 

The  priest  felt  that  he  was  being  challenged. 


The  Buffoon  295 

"  Of  course,"  he  moved  warily,  "  I  have  no  locus 
standi  in  your  affairs  at  all,  Mr.  Raynes,  no  locus 
standi  whatever  — "     He  hesitated. 

"  I  agree  with  you,"  said  Edward. 

"  But  as  a  priest,"  Reeves  was  nettled  now,  "  and 
as  a  friend,  if  I  may  say  so,  of  Miss  Dinwiddie's, 
I  feel  that  I  am  bound,  in  duty  bound,  to  —  well,  I 
must  not  say  to  protest,  but  to  ask  you  if  you  could 
not  possibly  reconsider  your  plans  in  this  one  partic- 
ular." 

Edward's  spleen  was  beginning  to  rise.  The  stud- 
ied moderation  of  this  man,  the  "  sorely  tried  but 
always  tactful  "  pose,  irritated  him  extremely, 

"  You've  discharged  your  duty,"  he  replied 
shortly.  "  But  a  Church  marriage  is  repulsive  to 
me. 

"  Indeed.     May  I  ask  why?  " 

"  Because  I  don't  like  the  way  Christianity  has 
of  trying  to  salve  everything  with  lies :  I  don't  like 
that  intent  to  be  comforting  and  healing  at  all  costs. 
I've  suffered  myself  from  another  form  of  the  same 
disease." 

Tryers  flushed  angrily.  Reeves  tightened  his  lips, 
setting  his  self-control  on  an  eminence  for  emulation. 
He  gave  a  forbearing  reserved  glance  to  a  distant 
corner  of  the  room,  a  glance  that  "  not  on  my  own 
account,  but  on  yours  "  deprecated  Edward's  bad 
taste.  Eunice  sat  v/ith  twined  fingers;  she  had 
adopted  a  look  of  mute  and  sweet  distress :     "  If  I 


296  The  Buffoon 

could,  oh,  how  much  I  would!  "  she  seemed  to  say; 
what  she  could  not  and  what  she  would  remaining, 
of  course,  in  the  region  of  enigma. 

"  Eunice,"  Edward  addressed  her  after  the  painful 
pause;  "  Eunice,  we  spoke,  I  think,  of  going  back?  " 

She  rose  with  a  sigh.  "  Good-bye,"  she  said,  hint- 
ing a  world  of  possible  concentrated  meanings. 

The  priest  bowed  deeply,  as  he  held  her  hand,  im- 
parting to  her,  perhaps,  some  portion  of  his  beautiful 
spirit.     Edward  left  with  the  briefest  possible  salute. 

"  You  are  not  angry  with  me?  "  She  swayed  her 
body  tentatively  towards  him,  as  they  walked. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  are  really 
at  all  taken  in  by  those  humbugs?  And  surely 
you've  outgrown  that  kind  of  Churchiness  .  .  .  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  .  .  .  yes.  That  was  some  years  ago. 
I  do  not  worship  now  within  walls.  You  must  not 
mistake  me, —  Edward.  But  what  could  I  do  ?  It 
was  so  difficult  for  me. —  What  could  I  do?  "  she 
repeated  plaintively. 

"  Oh,  it's  all  right."  He  was  pacified.  *'  I  was 
annoyed  by  the  idea  of  your  making  a  stole  or  a 
chasuble,  or  whatever  it  is,  for  that  unpleasant  little 
fat  creature.  You  won't,  of  course,  will  you?  — 
Well,  then,  it  doesn't  matter.  Shall  I  get  you  a  taxi  ? 
Oh,  and,  of  course,  I  must  have  your  address."  She 
opened  her  bag  and  gave  him  a  card.  Her  eyes  were 
like  a  troubled  child's.  "  Don't  think  any  more  of 
Reeves  and  Tryers.  They  are  people  of  no  impor- 
tance.    They  aren't  fit  subjects  for  intelligent  peo- 


rhe  Buffoon  297 


pie."  He  was  still  rather  angry,  In  spite  of  himself. 
"  Remember,  I  will  write.  In  a  few  weeks  we  shall 
be  married." 

He  took  her  hand,  but  his  pleasure  in  the  warm 
close  clinging  of  her  fingers  was  spoilt  by  remem- 
brance of  the  priest's  clutch  a  few  minutes  since. 
He  would  not  say  good-bye,  with  the  echo  of  her 
"  good-bye  "  to  Reeves  still  in  his  ears. 

He  opened  the  door  of  the  taxi.  "  You  go  to 
your  cousins?"  "Yes."  Her  eyes  promised  a 
hundred  revelations  that  were  to  come.  He  liked 
that.  Yes,  after  all  he  had  been  right,  she  had  much 
to  give.  He  read  the  address  on  the  card  to  the 
driver,  drew  back  on  the  pavement,  raised  his  hat. 
She  was  bending  forward,  half  crouched  like  some 
figure  on  a  Greek  frieze,  her  profile  showing  three 
quarters  through  the  open  window.  Edward's  last 
memory  was  of  a  look  of  withdrawn  expectation  of 
unimaginable  things.  His  first  thought  when  she 
had  gone  was  "And  I  haven't  even  kissed  her!" 
Well,  It  was  better,  no  doubt,  to  hold  everything  In 
reserve.  He  went  to  his  Club,  played  bridge  till 
eight  o'clock,  dined,  then  took  five  men  over  to  his 
rooms  in  Jermyn  Street,  and  played  poker  with  them 
till  two  in  the  morning. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

SOME  eight  hours  later  Edward  was  waked 
from  deep  sleep  by  the  entrance  of  Welsh. 
This  disturbance  was  unexpected:  on  their 
return  from  Liverpool  the  lecturer  had  talked  of  go- 
ing home. 

"  But  I  didn't,"  he  explained  now.  "  I  went  to 
see  O'Flaherty.  He  persuaded  me  to  stay.  And, 
my  friend,  I  come  this  morning  to  make  you  a  com- 
munication of  grave  importance.  I  come  to  warn 
you, —  to  warn  you.     I  have  seen  Reggie  Tryers." 

"  Oh,  so  you  know  that  I  really  am  going  to  marry 
Eunice." 

"What?  What!  Marriage, —  actually  mar- 
riage 1  How  exciting!  He  never  said  so, —  the 
scoundrel!  I  tell  you,  Edward,  he  is  an  incredible 
scoundrel !  Streaks  and  streaks  of  yellow  and  chemi- 
cal green !  He  is  your  enemy;  implacable,  unscrupu- 
lous, resolute.  He  will  never,  never  forgive  you. 
What  inalienable  jealousy,  what  profound  hate !  I 
recognised  that  look  of  his  as  soon  as  I  saw  him  last 
night.  Ah,  of  course  he  could  not  bring  himself  to 
tell  us  that  you  had  actually  won  her !  How  extraor- 
dinarily exciting  that  you  are  to  marry  Eunice  Din- 
widdle! And  when?  Tell  me  when,  my  friend, 
tell  me  when!     This  is  news  indeed!  " 


rjie  Buffoon  299 

"  As  soon  as  possible.  In  three  or  four  weeks. 
I  am  going  to  make  inquiries  to-day.  What  is  the 
right  thing  to  do,  do  you  know?  " 

"  Oh,  you  get  a  licence.  Then  you  have  banns  put 
up.  But  that  isn't  necessary,  I  believe.  You  state 
your  place  of  residence,  or  something  of  that  sort. 
I  really  forget.  .  .  .  I'm  not  good  at  these  munici- 
pal affairs." 

"  No  matter.  I  know  a  man  who  is  a  lawyer.  I 
shall  look  him  up  this  morning.  Now  tell  me  about 
Tryers.  I  met  him  yesterday  just  after  Eunice  had 
accepted  me.  He  knows  perfectly  well  that  it  is  a 
question  of  marriage." 

"  Ah. —  He  came  round  to  O'Flaherty's  last 
night,  and  he  talked  about  you  all  the  time.  He 
seems  to  be  obsessed  by  you.  He  referred  to  Eu- 
nice as  your  victim.  '  Poor  girl,'  he  said,  *  poor 
girl!  I  mean  to  save  her  if  I  can.  He'll  be  tired 
of  her  within  the  year.'  He  harped  on  her  inno- 
cence, her  virtue,  he  called  her  a  Madonna  again, 
he  contrasted  her  beautiful  spiritual  qualities  with 
your  unscrupulousness  and  immorality.  He  repre- 
sented you  as  a  monster  of  vice,  a  devourer  of  vir- 
gins." 

"  And  what  is  he  going  to  do  about  it?  " 

"  Well,  he  didn't  give  his  scheme  away,  but  I  am 
perfectly  certain  that  he  and  Hubert  Reeves  are  go- 
ing to  interview  your  girl.  They  will  employ  all 
their  arts,  they  will  talk  about  what  is  beautiful  and 
clear,  they  will  tell  her  that  you  are  not  beautiful 


300  The  Buffoon 

and  clear.  Remember,  Reggie  knows  all  about  our 
visit  to  Liverpool.  He  will  no  doubt  make  the  most 
of  that.  He  will  tell  her  that  she's  an  unspotted 
mermaid  and  you  an  inky  cuttlefish." 

"Will  that  have  much  effect,  do  you  think?" 
Edward  got  out  of  bed  and  put  on  his  delightful 
dressing-gown. 

"Well, —  can  you  explain  Liverpool?  Can  you 
make  Eunice  envisage  Liverpool  in  a  philosophic 
way?  That  is  a  great  point.  No  doubt  it  can  be 
done.  The  important  thing  is  to  know  just  how  to 
make  the  attack.  How  would  one  make  the  attack, 
do  you  think? —  My  own  wife  quails  at  the  very 
name  of  Liverpool." 

"Just  wait  while  I  have  my  bath,  will  you? 
There  are  the  cigarettes." 

When  Edward  came  back,  he  found  Welsh  walk- 
ing about  the  room,  impatient  of  the  interval  of 
suppression.  "  I've  been  wondering  —  you  see,  the 
fact  is — " 

"  Well,  come  now,  advise  me."  Edward  began 
to  put  on  his  clothes. 

"  I've  been  wrestling  with  my  conscience.  My 
responsibility  is  beginning  to  weigh  upon  me." 

"  I'm  afraid  it  is.  Whenever  people  begin  to  be 
moral  and  serious  they  always  use  hackneyed 
phrases.  They  wrestle  with  conscience.  Responsi- 
bilities weigh.  Do  you  talk  like  that  when  you  lec- 
ture on  '  Hamlet '  ?  Responsibilities !  Conscience  I 
I  can't  allow  you  to  talk  so  disagreeably." 


rhe  Buffoon  301 


"What  an  exquisite  silk  vest!  Salmon-pink  I 
Now  if  our  dear  little  Eunice  could  only  see  you  now, 

—  with  your  decadent  late-Roman  body  1  What  las- 
situde, what  lines,  what  morbid  delicacy!  I  tell 
you  what,  my  friend,  you  are  like  an  El  Greco,  like 
the  young  Christ  of  El  Greco.   .   .   ." 

"  Very  nice.  We  must  go  to  Toledo  together 
some  time.  But  how  am  I  to  meet  this  insidious 
attack  of  Reggie  Tryers?     Tell  me  how." 

"  Upon  my  soul !  I'm  inclined  to  advise  you  to  do 
nothing  at  all.     Let  his  poison  work,  if  it  can.     And 

—  I  confess  it  —  I  rather  hope  it  will.  The  fact  is, 
I  didn't  count  the  cost  when  I  let  you  in  for  this. 
I  can't  stand  the  idea  of  having  let  you  in.  Re- 
morse, remorse  is  upon  me.  What  was  I  doing 
bringing  you  two  together?  Marriage  is  an  appall- 
ing business,  Edward,  appalling.  I  know,  every 
one  who  is  married  knows,  but  they  won't  tell.  All 
married  men  are  conspirators.  The  best  of  them 
simply  keep  silence,  like  that  shrewd  old  fellow  — 
who  was  he?  —  who  said,  '  I  could  say  a  great  deal 
about  marriage,  but  I  am  married.'  The  worst  of 
them  egg  others  on  to  marriage  out  of  spite.  That's 
my  worst  vice,  this  yielding  to  the  temptation  of  egg- 
ing others  on.  If  I  were  a  Catholic,  that  is  the  only 
sin  I  should  be  really  ashamed  to  confess.  It  is  un- 
pardonable, this  mania  for  drawing  others  into  one's 
own  net  just  to  see  how  they  look  when  they're  there ! 
And  I'm  always  doing  it.  I  lead  my  friends  on  to 
marriage, —  even  my  brothers.     Then  I  have  a  sud- 


302  The  Buffoon 

den  panic,  a  mad  reaction,  when  it's  too  late.  Well, 
at  least  I  suffer.  You  will  curse  me  in  a  year's  time 
if  you  go  through  with  this,  I  am  sure  of  it!  But 
Reggie  Tryers  may  save  us  yet;  let  him  have  his 
way!  " 

"  I'll  be  damned  if  I  do."  Edward  arranged  his 
tie  with  dexterous  fingers.  "  I'm  not  expecting  mar- 
riage to  be  easy  or  pleasant,  I'm  expecting  it  to  be 
in  many  ways  extremely  uncomfortable.  What  I'm 
out  for  is  experience  and  a  thorough  change.  I'm 
tired  of  being  a  bachelor." 

"  Yes, —  yes."     Welsh's  eyes  shone. 

"  If  I  get  tired  of  being  married,  it  will  be  differ- 
ent. That's  the  whole  point.  My  old  lease  of  life 
is  running  out:  I  want  a  new  one.  Then  there 
is  the  physical  reason,  with  which  you  can't  sympa- 
thise. Sporadic  amours  don't  satisfy  me  any 
longer." 

"  Ah,  but  —  of  course  I'm  not  an  authority,  but  is 
Eunice  the  right  girl  to  choose  for  physical  reasons? 
I  doubt  it.  A  direct  sensual  appeal  will  be  too 
'  gross  '  for  her  particular  pose.  She  won't  satisfy 
you  with  her  studied  vagueness,  her  deliberate 
worked-up  sensitiveness;  her  ideals  of  '  ethereal  pas- 
sion '  will  suffer  the  rudest  shocks,  because  —  and  I 
firmly  believe  this  —  she  really  has  grown  into  what 
at  first  she  pretended  to  be.  That's  why  Liverpool 
will  be  so  hard  to  explain  to  her.  She  will  have  an 
artificial  revolt  from  Liverpool,  because  her  pose, 
now  in  the  grain,  demands  it.     Yes,  she  will  do  what 


The  Buffoon  303 

her  pose  expects  of  her.  Now  the  kind  of  girl  you 
want  is  a  child  of  nature  — " 

"  Oh,  Lord !  " 

*'  And  I  beheve  I  have  the  very  thing  for  you ! 
Upon  my  soul!  A  young  girl,  too,  younger  than 
Eunice,  not  more  than  twenty,  I'm  sure, —  the  sim- 
plest, most  innocent,  most  untouched  creature !  A 
Perdita,  if  ever  there  was  one !  She  lives  near  my 
own  village,  alone  with  an  antiquarian  father,  who 
has  a  passion  for  keeping  bees.  He  writes  books, 
all  about  bees.  He's  almost  as  Innocent  as  she  Is. 
They  know  nobody,  positively  nobody;  they  never  go 
anywhere.  I  walk  over  and  talk  to  the  father,  now 
and  again.     Oh,  wonderfully  simple-minded !  " 

"  Do  you  also  talk  to  the  daughter?  " 

*'  Not  an  equivocal  syllable.  Not  one  word  that 
she  might  not  hear  from  her  father.  No,  I  can  be 
amazingly  virtuous.  Now,  there  is  a  girl  worth 
Initiating,  and  she  would  have  passion.  It  Is  there 
far  away,  remote  in  the  depths  of  her  dark  eyes. 
Ah,  yes,  when  once  she  Is  stirred!  But  she's  un- 
touched now,  oh,  how  untouched!  And,  my  dear, 
you're  not  really  In  love  with  Eunice,  are  you? 
Think  of  the  layers  upon  layers  of  pretence  you 
would  have  to  pierce  !  " 

"  No  man  of  pleasure  over  thirty  can  be  sure  that 
he  Is  really  In  love.  The  perished  hours  are  put 
down  In  the  bill.  And  of  course  I  know  that  with 
Eunice  I  shall  have  to  destroy  first.  But  that  appeals 
to  me.     I  need  that  kind  of  stimulus,  just  the  stimu- 


304  The  Buffoon 

lus  that  I  shouldn't  get  with  your  beekeeper's  daugh- 
ter. Also,  I  disagree  with  you  about  the  persist- 
ency of  Eunice's  pose.  I  look  forward  to  dealing 
with  her  pose,  very  much.  Don't  you  see  that  it's 
her  sex,  it's  the  physical  stress  of  her  nature,  that 
has  driven  her  into  the  pose,  and  that  when  her  pas- 
sion is  normally  diverted,  she  will  rebound?  That's 
what  I  wait  for,  that's  what  I  consider  interesting. 
You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  think  her  cold,  simply 
because  she  talks  about  sea-weed  and  says  she's  a 
sister  of  the  winds  and  the  waters?  " 

"  No.  But  all  the  same  she  wouldn't  like  to  be 
conquered  in  your  way,  she  would  shrink,  I  am  con- 
vinced, from  direct  gratifications.  She  would  like 
everything  to  be  occult,  unconfessed,  undefined. 
Your  sunburnt  flesh  would  know  no  peace.  .  .  .  No, 
she  would  like  to  be  corrupted  by  a  Jesuit,  that  is 
what  she  would  like!  Zeus  and  Apollo  are  not  in 
her  line  at  all." 

"  You're  very  discouraging.  No  matter. —  My 
own  belief  is  that  Eunice  is  au  fond  free  from  all 
morbid  abnormalities,  free  both  from  anaesthesia  and 
hypersEsthesIa,  neither  undersexed  nor  oversexed. — 
Well,  I  release  you  from  responslblhty,  and  I  raise 
the  curtain  for  your  entertainment.  What  more  can 
you  want?  " 

"  Ah.  Perhaps  you  are  right.  At  any  rate  It 
would  annoy  me  extraordinarily  for  Reggie  to  win. 
Suppose  Reggie  actually  succeeded  in  taking  her  fron> 
you,  in  getting  her  for  himself,  in  fact  I  " 


The  Buffoon  305 

"  That  would  annoy  me  even  more  extraordina- 
rily than  it  would  you.  You  don't  really  think  he 
wants  to  get  her,  do  you  ?  " 

"  I  think  that  if  he  could  only  stop  you  marrying 
her  by  marrying  her  himself,  he  would.  Yes,  he  cer- 
tainly would.  She  has  money,  you  know,  and  Reg- 
gie badly  wants  money.  He's  always  hard  up. 
And  Eunice  is  the  only  woman  of  whom  I've  ever 
heard  him  speak  approvingly.  He  says  that  she  is 
free  from  the  usual  grossness  of  her  sex,  and  all  that 
kind  of  thing.  Always  that  '  Madonna  '  touch. 
No  doubt  he  could  pretend  to  himself  that  he  was 
still  almost  a  celibate  if  he  married  her.  She  would 
like  that.  Yes,  he  would  play  the  Jesuit  to  suit  her. 
You  never  would.  You  couldn't,  of  course,  tolerate 
the  idea.  Upon  my  soul,  I  don't  know  what  to  wish. 
These  dilemmas !  On  the  one  hand  the  chagrin  of 
Reggie's  victory,  on  the  other  disappointment  and 
disaster  for  you.  I  should  like  the  girl  to  die  sud- 
denly.    That's  the  only  way  out." 

"  I'm  going  to  have  breakfast.  Come  along." 
They  went  into  the  next  room,  and  Edward  rang  the 
bell.  "  After  breakfast,"  he  continued,  "  I  am  go- 
ing to  see  Eunice." 

"  For  the  present,"  asked  Welsh,  "  what  is  your 
method?  You  move,  I  suppose,  with  infinite  cau- 
tion. You  reveal  nothing.  How  I  should  love  to 
see  and  listen  to  you  two  together!  " 

"  Oh,  I  play  up  to  her,  of  course :  very  much." 


A 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

"      ^     H !  "     Eunice  caught  her  breath.     "  You 
have  come.     But  I  knew  —  I  knew  that 
you  would."     She  trembled  towards  Ed- 
ward, and  for  the  first  time  he  kissed  her. 

Her  response  amazed  him:  she  had  fire,  a  fire 
that  shrivelled  her  pose  in  a  moment.  Yes,  he  could 
swear  that  all  herself  clung  to  him  in  her  lips.  So 
much  for  Jack  Welsh!  Edward  remained  amazed: 
it  was  he  who  was  breathless  now;  but  yet  not  alto- 
gether —  he  could  not  tell  why  —  not  altogether  re- 
assured. Some  doubt  or  other  lay  in  ambush,  some 
ambiguous  presentiment  showed  vague  outlines.  It 
was  unaccountable, —  he  felt  impatience,  impatience 
with  himself  only,  he  hoped  it  must  be,  not  surely 
with  —  he  broke  off  his  thoughts  and  kissed  her 
again.  She  put  him  gently  from  her,  she  stood  look- 
ing at  him  with  eyes  that  certainly  were  illumined. 
Suddenly  he  was  conscious  of  two  thoughts,  put 
clearly  into  words,  printed,  so  it  seemed,  by  his  brain, 
in  very  black  type,  on  a  sheet  of  very  white  paper, 
thrust  out  full  in  view:  "  I  must  not  lose  her." 
*'  Can  we  be  free  together?"  Yes,  that  was  it,  he 
understood  himself  now.  Primary  instinct,  race- 
instinct  commanded  him  in  that  "  I  must  not  lose 

306 


The  Buffoon  307 

her,"  but  secondary  instinct,  the  instinct  that  inhibits 
the  reduction  of  everything  to  the  level  of  race,  and 
counsels  regard  for  individual  issues,  it  was  that  sec- 
ondary or  acquired  instinct  that  made  him  ask  if  he 
could  be  free  with  her  and  she  with  him.  But  could 
she  ever  be  free?     He  was  to  learn  that. 

"What  are  you  thinking?"  She  leaned  her 
head  —  that  sibyllic  contour  —  towards  him. 

*'  What  I  think,"  Edward  replied,  "  part  of  what 
I  think  —  is :  '  Are  you  a  slave  ?  Shall  I  be  a 
slave  with  you,  if  we  are  together?  '  "  He  looked 
at  her,  and  could  see  that  she  was  chiefly  occupied 
with  the  effort  of  not  appearing  to  be  baffled.  Did 
she  want  to  understand,  or  was  she  taken  up  only 
with  appearances?  He  would  not  judge  hastily. 
He  would  go  on  trying  to  tell  the  truth  and  then  see 
what  happened.  "  I  shall  speak  to  the  point,  be- 
cause the  point  is  so  very  important  for  us.  But 
the  worst  of  it  is  that  it  is  almost  impossible  to  speak 
clearly  of  what  is  important.  Let  me  try  and  tell 
you,  though,  why  I  sought  you  out.  It  was  because  I 
wanted  liberty."  Her  lips  moved,  she  raised  her 
head.  "  Sex,  for  me,  has  become  an  enslavement, 
an  absorption.  I  have' never  been  able  to  deal  with 
it,  I  have  sometimes  been  secretly  dissatisfied  by  my 
failure,  though  I  never  admitted  it.  Sex  has  been  the 
one  thing  that  spoilt  the  harmony  of  my  existence. 
To  satisfy  my  desires  I  took  girls  who  were  the  vic- 
tims of  the  same  enslavement  as  myself,  the  same  ab- 
sorption!"    Eunice     betrayed     curiosity.     "Only 


308  The  Buffoon 

they  lived  in  prison,  they  were  born  there, —  of 
course  never  to  get  out.  I  managed  to  take  a 
ticket-of-leave  now  and  again ;  but  it  was  always,  you 
understand,  a  ticket-of-leave.  ...  I  want  you  to 
see  that  it  was  not  only  a  question  of  my  not  admit- 
ting that  I  was  under  this  kind  of  bondage,  I  didn't 
for  a  long  while  realise  that  I  was.  Animal  spirit 
and  egoism  served  me  well.  .  .  .  But  not  quite  that 
either.  .  .  .  You  understand?  How  am  I  to  ex- 
plain? I  mean  that  it  is  possible  to  fool  away  one's 
soul." 

She  put  out  a  deciduous  hand,  poised  it  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  let  it  flutter  to  his,  delicately  as  a 
blown  leaf.  "  Our  souls,"  she  said  slowly,  "  will 
grow  together." 

"Ah,  but," — he  started  from  her^ — "that  isn't 
what  I  want." 

She  gave  him  a  troubled  glance.  She  was  not  used 
to  men  saying  that  what  she  suggested  was  what  they 
didn't  want. 

"  This  growing  together  of  souls !  "  Edward  got 
up  from  his  chair.  "  Why, —  do  they  ever,  do  you 
think,  do  that?" 

He  was  silent,  thinking:  "  I  must  make  myself 
plainer.  At  this  rate  we  shall  never  get  on."  The 
aspect  of  the  room  was  somehow  a  barrier  to  the 
frankness  at  which  he  so  touchingly  aimed:  every 
object  seemed  non-committal.  The  furniture  was 
so  nice  and  quiet  and  good,  so  well-mannered.  .  .  . 
Not  a  curve  of  a  chair-leg  that  could  offend  or  fail. 


rhe  Buffoon  309 


Taste !  taste !  how  he  hated  taste !  Those  excellent 
prints  of  Dutch  and  Italian  masterpieces,  what  were 
they  for  except  to  proclaim  taste?  "  You  see  that 
we  appreciate  Leonardo  and  Raphael  and  Memm- 
ling,"  they  seemed  to  insist.  And  then,  that  piano, 
that  music-case,  that  dainty  little  slim-legged  table 
with  its  dainty  little  China  ornaments!  How  very 
well  ever}'thing  came  w^ithin  accepted  limits. 

"  Do  you  know,"  Edward  broke  the  pause,  "  I 
should  like  to  take  everything  in  this  room  and  break 
it  to  pieces  and  make  a  bonfire  of  it.  I  should  like 
to  kick  and  dance  and  howl  and  smash!  I 
should—" 

Her  laughter  stopped  him;  he  felt  foolish,  as 
though  his  hit  had  missed,  although  he  had  not  meant 
it  to  be  a  hit.  Eunice  was  laughing  spontaneously, 
because  she  was  amused, —  he  could  see  that.  As 
before,  that  evening  after  Mrs.  O'Malley's  paper, 
she  was  like  a  schoolgirl. 

"  If  only  you  still  wore  your  hair  down  your  back," 
he  told  her,  "  I  would  pull  it.  So  this  is  how  you 
treat  the  outbursts  of  my  profoundest  emotion !  Do 
you  think  I  meant  that  to  be  amusing  or  sensa- 
tional?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  meant."  Her  eyes  still 
had  their  mocking  gleam.  "  I  don't  know  why  you 
want  to  kick  my  things  about.  Tell  me."  She  de- 
liciously  pursed  her  lips. 

"  Because  they  won't  let  me  talk  to  you.  If  we 
were  in  a  Pimlico  lodging-house  or  a  village  inn  I' 


310  The  Buffoon 


could  tell  you  what  I  want  to  tell  you.  In  this  place 
a  lady-like  hand  with  artistically  filed  fingernails  is 
clapped  over  my  mouth.     Who  made  this  room?  " 

"  I  don't  believe  you  really  want  to  tell  me  any- 
thing.    Shut  your  eyes." 

"  Good  Lord !  The  Universe  doesn't  want  me 
to  tell  you  anything.  That  is  the  real  truth.  The 
eternal  prohibition!  Of  course,  I  should  have 
known.  Men  and  women  are  destined  to  lie  to  one 
another  forever,  so  that  this  cursed  world  may  go 
on  spinning  round,  and  round,  and  round!  Yes,  it 
would  stop  if  they  told  the  truth,  it  would  stop  dead. 
.  .  .  My  dear  Eunice,  my  dearest  girl, —  when  first 
I  saw  you, —  when  you  were  up  there  in  the  gallery 
at  our  friend  Mr.  Welsh's  lecture,  my  spirit  fled  to 
yours.  I  knew  that  we  were  made  for  union, — 
union  of  mind,  of  spirit,  of  body.  For  years  I  had 
wandered,  searching,  searching, —  in  vain.  I  had 
wasted  my  life  on  petty  counterfeit  loves,  on  small 
and  vain  distractions.  Then  you  came:  then  at  last 
I  knew  myself,  and  I  knew  that  without  you  myself 
could  never  be  known. —  Will  that  do?  Tell 
me  — "  He  took  her  by  both  wrists  and  looked  her 
full  in  the  face.  Her  eyes  shifted  momentarily,  she 
betrayed  a  fleeting  embarrassment,  then  met  him 
boldly: 

"  No." 

"  Well,  then,  what  do  you  think  really  happened? 
—  You  did  stir  me  unusually  when  I  saw  you  first, 
you  impressed  me  emotionally,  you  piqued  my  Intel- 


The  Buffoon  311 

lectual  curiosity.  The  way  you  sat,  the  way  you 
looked,  the  ways  you  might  be  thinking !  You  threw 
a  pecuHar  glamour  over  my  mind, —  you  still  do." 
She  inclined,  as  though  unconsciously;  he  felt  her 
breath  on  his  cheek.  "  No  other  woman  had  —  has 
—  ever  moved  me  in  at  all  your  way.  And  now  you 
have  let  me  take  you.  You  answer  the  physical  de- 
sire that  I  have  for  you  — "  She  winced,  and 
turned  her  head  away.  "  Physical  desire,"  he  em- 
phasised the  words.  *'  Yes,  you  are  not  cold. — 
Forgive  me," —  he  observed  her  distress  — "  but  de- 
sire of  that  kind  Is  Important,  Isn't  It?  We  contem- 
plate marriage." 

"Contemplate?"  She  betrayed  uneasiness  on 
the  spur  of  the  moment. 

"  Oh,  well,  I  mean  that  we  are  considering, —  that 
we  are  looking  at  —  envisaging,  as  our  friend  Welsh 
would  say, —  yes,  envisaging  marriage.  Not  that 
we  are  undecided  about  our  own  marriage.  Of 
course  that  Is  quite  settled." 

Edward  could  not  help  speaking  Impatiently.  It 
was  maddening,  this  Impossibility  of  getting  her  to 
see  what  he  was  driving  at.  Must  women  always, 
he  wondered,  be  occupied  with  the  particular  case? 

"  I  am  thinking — "  Eunice  looked  straight  before 
her.  "  Your  life  has  not  been  happy,  then, —  Ed- 
ward?" 

"  Happy?  Yes,  I  made  It  out  to  be  happy,  so  it 
was.  It  wouldn't  seem  happy  to  me.  If  I  had  to  live 
It  through  again  as  I  am  now." 


312  The  Buffoon 

"Ah,  but  you  haven't  got  to!"  Sentiment 
jumped  up  Hke  a  Jack-in-the-box. 

"  No,  but  the  question  is,  now  that  I  know  all 
about  my  enslavement,  or  think  I  do,  can  I  avoid  it? 
Will  you  —  can  you  —  help  me  ?  That  is  the  point. 
Is  it  only  to  be  a  change  of  prison?  Will  our  mar- 
riage give  frank  liberation  to  the  flesh  without  ex- 
acting the  penalty,  without  at  the  same  time  depriv- 
ing us  of  intellectual  freedom,  without  the  usual 
encroachment  upon  what  really  matters  in  our  indi- 
vidual lives?  —  You  see,  you  can't  free  the  flesh  hy 
itself.  .  .  ." 

He  stopped  and  looked  at  her.  No,  she  did  not 
understand.  She  gave  a  perfect  imitation  of  under- 
standing, as  she  sat  there,  curved  and  poised,  with 
her  chin  on  one  hand  and  her  eyes  earnestly  gazing 
at  him, —  sympathising  eyes,  any  one  would  have 
said,  but  sympathising  with  just  nothing  at  all! 

"  The  flesh,"  Edward  went  on  hopelessly,  and  in 
spite  of  himself,  "  the  flesh  takes  revenges  if  you  do, 
and  so  does  the  mind.  Neither  will  —  well,  will  put 
up  with  it.  Neither  is  satisfied.  They  must  be  put, 
you  see,  in  harness.  I  made  the  mistake  of  thinking 
that  I  could  pacify  the  flesh,  by  itself,  now  and  again, 
and  then  take  leave,  then  turn  to  the  other  things 
of  life.  A  pleasant,  easy,  simple  arrangement,  it 
seemed.  Well,  it  has  broken  down  altogether.  I 
have  done  with  it.  I  recognise  that  I  have  never 
given  sex  its  place,  that  I  have  never  fused  it,  as  it 
must  be  fused,  into  the  metal  of  existence.  ...  I 


rJie  Buffoon  313 

recognise  that  a  permanent  union  is,  for  me,  at  any 
rate,  the  only  possible  solution, —  a  union  in  which 
sex  is  given  its  right  play,  a  play  that  interests  other 
faculties,  freeing  them  —  you  understand?  —  by  co- 
operation." 

"  I  think  that  is  beautiful,"  she  said,  more  slowly 
than  ever.  "  Of  course  I'm  only  a  child,  I  love  as 
a  child, —  but — " 

"  I  detest  equally,"  Edward  continued,  "  sex-nega- 
tion and  sex-absorption.  If  you  knew  the  kind  of  re- 
vulsion I  feel  for  those  little,  stunted,  flesh-besotted, 
sex-ridden  creatures !  "  Eunice  betrayed  curiosity 
again.  "  Their  one  idea  of  '  a  good  time  ' !  And 
the  way  in  which  they  settle  down  and  wallow,  and 
then  when  it's  over  wait  with  folded  hands  till  the 
next  '  good  time  '  comes  round !  You  can  under- 
stand the  horror,  the  hostility,  that  a  person  diseased 
in  part  feels  for  those  who  are  diseased  in  full,  with 
the  same  disease  as  his  own?  Well,  I  have  felt  like 
that.     I  felt  like  that  only  three  nights  ago  1  " 

"  But, —  Edward  — "  she  flushed  and  turned  from 
him,  controlling  her  curiosity, — "  this  is  all  over  now. 
It  is  brave  of  you  to  tell  me,  but  let  us  not  remember. 
I  will  help  you  to  forget.  In  the  new  life  —  I  will 
be  with  you." 

"  Yes.  There  It  Is.  Yes.—  Well."  Edward 
rose :  he  had  given  it  up.  "  We  understand  one  an- 
other, I  am  sure." 

He  stood,  looking  down  at  her.  She  lowered  her 
head,  and  suddenly  he  stooped,  took  her  head  be- 


314  The  Buffoon 

tween  his  hands,  just  as  he  had  taken  Betty's.  It 
pleased  him  to  do  that.  He  kissed  her;  she  trem- 
bled; he  kissed  her  again  and  again,  he  put  his  arms 
round  her  and  pressed  her  to  him.  The  natural 
odour  of  her  hair  was  about  and  through  his  senses; 
it  seemed  to  come  from  her  flesh  through  her  hair. 
"Ah, —  this!"  thought  Edward.  "And  the  rot 
I've  been  talking!  "  Then  at  once  he  was  conscious 
of  a  devastation,  mental  and  physical.  His  head 
throbbed,  his  eyes  burned,  he  was  horribly  uncom- 
fortable, painfully  excited.  He  felt  very  much  as 
he  had  felt  once  in  Spain,  at  a  Bull  Fight.  Yes,  his 
system  was  responding  now  in  the  same  way. 

Eunice  clung  to  him,  she  seemed  to  be  sucking  him 
into  her  body,  but  why,  he  could  not  say,  for  to  all 
seeming  she  was  entirely  virginal  and  discreet.  So 
this  was  the  first  Impression  of  the  caresses  of  an  un- 
touched maid?  Edward  did  ncft  doubt  that  Eunice 
was  chaste  in  the  usual  sense.  "  But  all  the  more 
for  that  she'll  take  me,"  he  thought  in  desperation. 
"  I  shall  have  nothing  left,  God  help  me!  And  to 
think  how  I've  been  talking  to  her! —  You're  a 
fool,"  he  went  on  thinking;  "you  don't  want  her 
to  blow  either  hot  or  cold?  What  do  you  want?  " 
The  worst  of  it  was  that  he  knew  perfectly  well,  now, 
what  he  wanted.  It  was  clearer  to  him  every  mo- 
ment. He  would  make  one  last  attempt,  even 
though  the  recurrence  might  ring  flat  and  dead.  He 
moved  slightly  and  she  let  him  go. 

"  What  I  want,"  he  blurted  in  an  uncomfortable 


The  Buffoon  315 

defiance,  "  is  that  you  should  put  sex  in  the  same 
place  as  a  man  does, —  as  a  man  wants  to.  I  can't 
stand  the  feminised  sex-instinct  any  longer.  It's  per- 
verted and  diseased.  The  truth  is  no  decent  woman 
ought  to  have  anything  more  to  do  with  it,  ever. 
No  human  being  ought  to  be  swamped  in  that  dis- 
gusting way.   ..." 

"Why,  of  course, —  Edward!  It's  only  the  — 
the  women  of  grosser  type,  who  are.  The  women 
who  are  not  clear." 

He  could  see  that  she  was  thinking:  "  Did  I,  did 
I  go  too  far  just  now?  "  and  he  began  to  reply  di' 
rectly  to  her  thought. 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  said;  "  I  don't,  of  course,  think  that 
you  — "  Her  discomfort  and  surprise  were  so  evi- 
dent that  he  stopped  short.  "  There  are  different 
ways  of  being  swamped,"  he  went  on.  "  My  ob- 
jection to  all  of  them  is  the  same.  I  don't  want  sex 
to  blur  my  life,  to  be  forever  thrusting  irrelevancies 
at  me,  at  every  possible  point.  Most  women  make 
sex  do  that.  Yes,"  he  spoke  angrily,  "  they  do. 
It's  the  truth.  They  distract  every  issue  with  their 
personal  appeals.  Nothing  is  left  clear  and  clean. 
No  thought  allowed  free  play.  Emotional  fer- 
vour —  spilt  all  about  by  sex,  in  thick  smears  or 
thin  —  it  has  at  every  point  to  be  kept  wet,  or  they 
are  lost.  We  want  the  emotions,  of  course:  that 
part  of  us  has  to  be  fed,  but  why  feed  it  at  the  ex- 
pense of  everything  else  that  we  value?  Why  must 
everything  else  go  hang?     Who  gains  by  it?     We 


316  The  Buffoon 

want  sex  play,  we  separate  ourselves  damnably  if  we 
don't  have  it,  but  surely  if  sex  play  were  more  direct 
it  would  be  more  really  subtle  in  its  directness,  and 
more  exciting.  I  want  it,  this  sex  play,  without  its 
irrelevant  details.  I  don't  want  either  to  crush  it 
out  or  to  be  crushed  out  by  it." 

"Irrelevant  details?"  Eunice  looked  wonder- 
ingly.  "  All  this  is  so  new  and  so  strange.  I  don't 
understand :  but  I  —  I  am  trying  to.  You  must 
teach  me  ...   I  will  try  to  learn.   .   .   ." 

"  Irrelevant  details.  Yes.  What  I  am  afraid  of 
is  this :  that  sex  will  still,  and  worse  than  ever,  come 
spying  on  my  life,  on  my  thought,  on  myself,  that  if 
I  want  to  do  anything,  to  think  anything,  the  im- 
pertinent question  will  always  come  up:  'How 
does  this  bear  upon  your  relations  with  her?  What 
will  she  make  of  it?  Will  her  hold  weaken  or 
strengthen?  Will  her  appeal  be  less  or  more?' 
Women  thrust  such  questions  on  men.  They'd  never 
come  of  themselves. —  Don't  you  see  the  monstrous 
irrelevancy  there?  Doesn't  that  show  what  I  mean 
by  saying  that  I  want  a  girl  who  can  treat  sex  like  a 
man?" 

To  his  amazement  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She 
was  almost  sobbing.  "  What  is  it?  "  he  caught  her 
arm.  "  I  didn't  mean  that  you  couldn't.  I  —  I 
think  —  I  am  sure  you  can.  Yes,"  he  added  with 
an  effort,  "  that  is  just  what  you  can  do.  You,  with 
your  wonderful  epicene  body,  you  must  have,  you 


The  Buffoon  317 

cannot  but  have,  just  that  epicene  mind.  Eunice, 
I—" 

"  I  thought " —  she  raised  moist  eyes  and  trem- 
bUng  lids  to  him — "  I  thought  you  wanted  me  for 
myself." 

"  Of  course:  that  is  just  it.  Because,  being  your- 
self, you  meet  this  need  in  me.  Why,  of  course  — " 
He  hesitated,  he  felt  baffled.  "  Why,  of  course," 
he  repeated,  "  I  am  drawn  to  you  because  you  are 
yourself." 

They  were  silent.  She  turned  from  him  and  dried 
her  eyes.  He  tried  to  understand  how  it  was  that 
he  had  hurt  her  pride  or  her  vanity. 

"  We  are  well  agreed,"  he  said  at  last.  "  I  know 
that  we  are  well  agreed.  We  can  take  each  other 
without  deadening  the  Universe.  We  can  give  sex 
its  play  without  loss  of  freedom.  You  see," —  at 
whatever  risk  of  flatness  or  inepitude  he  felt  that  he 
must  try  to  sum  the  matter  up  — "  you  see  what  my 
dilemma  has  been,  and  how  I  shall  solve  it  —  with 
you.  There  are  two  wrong  ways.  One  I  have 
tried,  the  other  I'm  afraid  of.  I  have  thrown  sops 
to  the  flesh,  and  then  run  away  and  tried  to  live, — 
couldn't,  because  part  of  my  life  was  left  out,  an  or- 
ganic part  that  I  had  tried  to  deal  with  separately, 
as  if  it  could  be  put  in  a  neat  little  compartment  of 
its  own.  In  that  compartment  it  lost  its  value,  it 
was  a  poor  thing,  it  grew  thin  and  weak  and  queru- 
lous, cut  off  in  that  way  from  spirit  and  mind.     And, 


318  The  Buffoon 


as  I  said,  it  had  its  revenges.  Spirit  and  mind 
weren't  content,  they  were  fretted  and  frayed,  they 
revolted  against  the  arrangement  by  which  they  were 
always  out  when  the  flesh  was  in.  Naturally  they 
refused  to  be  in  when  the  flesh  was  out!  Simple 
enough!  Well,  now,  I  change  all  that,  and  as  soon 
as  I  change  it,  a  new  danger  appears,  a  danger  that 
I  never  realised  till  I  met  you." 

"Till  you  met  me?     What  do  you  mean?" 

"  Why,  that  till  I  met  you  I  had  never  met  any 
woman  who  revealed  to  me  the  possibility  of  a  sexual 
companionship  in  which  spirit  and  intellect  could 
take  their  place." 

"Ah,  but  that  is  what  love  means,  is  it  not?" 
She  gave  him  a  look  of  ethereal  content. 

"  And,  you  see,  that  revelation  brought  another 
with  it.  Suppose  spirit  and  intellect  to  be  gradually 
ousted,  suppose  an  invincible  —  an  inherently  invin- 
cible —  sex-jealousy  of  them  as  intruders.  Suppose 
that  this  recognition  of  them  as  co-operators,  the 
recognition  that  I  want, —  that  you  want, —  is  not 
given,  or  given  grudgingly,  then,  don't  you  see, — 
why,  it  is  the  worst  catastrophe  of  all!  What  I 
want  us  to  do  —  what  we  want  to  do  —  is  to  keep 
intellect,  spirit  and  flesh  all  free  together, —  free  be- 
cause they  are  together,  for  they  can't  be  free  any- 
how else.  But  it's  difficult, —  oh,  the  Lord  knows 
how  difficult  it  is!  " 

"  Edward," — very  simply  and  spontaneously  she 
took  his  hand, — "  Edward,  we  can  —  we  can  —  to- 


rhe  Buffoon  319 

gether."  She  sighed  deeply,  apparently  from  relief, 
perhaps  from  boredom.     Again  they  were  silent. 

"  I  will  go  now,"  he  said,  breaking  the  long  pause. 
He  looked  fixedly  at  her. 

"  What  is  it?  "     Eunice  shrank. 

"  Why  did  you  take  me?  " 

"  Because  —  because  — "  Once  again  she  trem- 
bled; she  was  exquisite  in  her  shyness,  her  uncer- 
tainty. "  Love  can  never  tell,"  she  said  at  last,  in 
her  lowest,  sweetest  tone. 

Edward  was  filled  with  admiration.  "  I  must 
have  her,"  he  thought  again.  "  Yes,  there  is  no 
help  for  it."  Then  he  noted,  with  a  suppressed 
smile,  the  automatic  reaction  of  his  vanity  to  the 
girl's  last  little  remark.  "  Love  can  never  tell !  " 
Ah,  yes,  of  course !  All  the  same  he  wished  he  knew 
what  the  answer  to  his  question  really  was. 

"  Oh,  I  do  —  I  do  want  to  help  you!  "  she  cried, 
with  sudden  eager  pressure  of  her  hands  to  his. 

He  left  her,  more  determined  than  before  to 
marry  her,  much  less  confident  than  before  that 
marrying  her  was  reasonable  or  right. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

EDWARD  went  from  Eunice  to  Chancery- 
Lane,  interviewed  his  lawyer  acquaintance, 
got  the  necessary  information  from  him, 
then  took  a  cab  to  his  Club,  where  he  lunched  with 
remarkable  appetite.  It  was  late,  there  were  very 
few  men  in  the  dining-room,  and  Edward  was  glad  to 
be  undisturbed.  Not  that  he  wanted  to  think;  his 
mind  relapsed  on  complete  inactivity,  he  hardly,  in 
fact,  thought  of  his  food.  But  he  wished  to  enjoy 
this  vacuity  of  brain  alone.  It  was  an  annoyance 
when  he  ran  into  Theocrite  Molesworth  on  leaving 
the  dining-room. 

"Well,  Raynes,  want  to  rook  us  again?  I've 
got  four  dear  little  deuces  lying  in  wait  for  you,  only 
give 'em  a  chance  to  get  in  line.  What?  Come  and 
have  a  drink  on  the  strength  of  it.  Some  of  the 
others  are  here, —  dying  for  revenge,  all  of  them." 
Edward  surveyed  his  interlocutor's  pink,  well-bred, 
indeterminately  handsome  face,  he  noted  the  blond 
sleek  hair  brushed  back  from  the  unpretending  fore- 
head; from  there  downwards  to  the  neat  patent 
leather  shoes  he  took  him  in.  "  My  dear  Moles- 
worth,"  he  said,  "  never  let  cigarette  ash  fall  on 
your  waistcoat  without  flicking  it  off.  I  can't  bear 
you  to  have  a  flaw  anywhere." 

320 


The  Buffoo?i 321 

"Funny  feller!"  Molesworth  laughed  at  high 
pitch.  "  I've  the  deuce  of  a  flaw  in  my  pocket  after 
last  night,  he!  he!  That's  the  kind  of  flaw  that 
troubles  me," 

"  Quite  unimportant,  though.  Doesn't  show. 
But  I  can't  play  with  you  this  afternoon.  I've  got 
to  go  down  to  the  country.  Just  going  to  have  a 
look  at  the  A.B.C." 

Molesworth  went  into  the  smoking-room  with  him, 
and  ordered  two  liqueurs,  while  Edward  employed 
himself  with  the  Railway  Guide.  "  Westbeach, 
Westbeach,"  he  murmured.  "Ah,  yes,  4.13. 
Must  leave  here  in  about  ten  minutes.  H'm,  looks 
like  rain.  Do  you  really  believe,  Molesworth,  that 
this  is  the  original  French  green  Chartreuse?  I 
don't.  They  used  it  all  up  ages  ago.  Barbarous 
thing,  kicking  those  poor  old  monks  out  like  that." 

"  Yes.  Rotten  trick. —  Who's  the  girl  at  West- 
beach, Raynes?  Gay  old  dawg  you  are,  hoppin'  ofli 
to  Westbeach.  Always  hoppin'  about  all  over  the 
place.  Time  you  gave  'em  a  rest.  Think  of  your 
bally  old  health,  think  of  your  poor  dear  nerves." 

"  Tell  me  now.  What  is  your  opinion  of  mar- 
nage  i 

"  Lord  help  us !  "  Molesworth  stared.  "  Funny 
feller!  "     He  sipped  his  liqueur. 

"  It  isn't  a  joke.     I  really  want  to  know." 

"  Oh,  you  do,  do  you?  What's  the  good  of  my 
havin'  an  opinion?  My  income  doesn't  run  to  mar- 
riage, hardly  allows  for  — " 


322  The  Buffoon 

"  Yes,  yes.  But  suppose  it  did  ?  Come,  you  have 
some  imagination,  haven't  you?  "  Edward  pursued 
his  point.  He  knew  Molesworth  for  a  confirmed 
sentimentalist,  revealed  as  such  when  he  was  really 
drunk,  though  he  tried  to  keep  up  a  cynical  levity 
about  women  when  he  was  sober.  "  Come  now,  be 
serious.  I've  only  ten  minutes.  Just  suppose  for 
the  moment  that  you  have  five  thousand  a  year." 

Molesworth  finished  his  liqueur  and  rang  for  an- 
other. 

"  Well,"  he  spoke  with  difficulty,  after  a  pause. 
"  You  see,  it's  something  like  this.  I'm  a  rotten 
sort  of  a  feller,  really, —  not  good  for  much,  not 
clever,  or  anything  of  that  kind.  Drink  more  than 
I  ought,  have  nights  out  now  and  again. —  Look 
here,  you  aren't  gammoning  me,  are  you, —  you 
aren't—?" 

"  Good  Lord,  no.  Go  on.  I  want  to  hear. 
Honour  bright." 

"  Well,  of  course,  some  girls  are  damn  rotten,  too. 
The  kind  of  girls  I  mess  about  with  are  damn  rotten. 
Couldn't  marry  that  kind  of  girl.  Great  mistake. 
For  God's  sake,  Raynes,  don't  do  it.  When  a  girl's 
rotten,  she  —  well,  she  goes  it  to  the  limit,  that's  all. 
The  trouble  is,  the  other  kind  of  women  are  a  damn 
sight  too  good  for  me.  I  know  that.  So  what  am  I 
to  do,  even  if  I  had  the  cash?  Shouldn't  feel  I  was 
worthy,  old  chap,  shouldn't  feel  I  was  worthy.   .   .   ." 

Molesworth  shook  his  head  solemnly.  Edward 
looked  closely  at  him,   and  observed  an  alcoholic 


The  Buffoon  323 

film  over  his  large  light-blue  eyes.  .  .  .  Evidently 
well  set  for  the  sentimental  mood,  probably  been 
drinking  before  they  met. 

"  But,"  Edward  replied,  "  you're  just  as  worthy 
as  most.     I  thinlc  you'd  make  an  excellent  husband." 

"  I'd  try.  Honest,  I'd  try.  Turn  over  a  new 
leaf,  keep  on  the  straight,  play  fair,  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  Yes  — "  He  raised  his  eyes;  they  were  elo- 
quent of  alcoholic  idealism.  "  Yes:  I'm  a  rotter, 
but  I'd  do  my  best."  His  saccharine  ecstasy  in  ac- 
knowledging himself  a  rotter  was  more  and  more  in 
evidence.  Edward  had  a  vision  of  all  the  sugar  of 
all  Molesworth's  drinks  filtering  to  deposit  through 
Molesworth's  emotions.  "  And,  mind  you,  if  I  had 
the  luck  to  get  the  right  kind  of  woman,  it'd  be  worth 
trying.  The  kind  of  woman,  I  mean,  who  would 
give  me  a  leg  up.  That's  what  I  want, —  real  good 
woman  to  keep  me  on  the  straight.  Woman, —  you 
understand, —  who  really  is  a  woman,  who  —  well, 
hang  it,  you  know  what  I  mean." 

"  A  real  genuine  womanly  woman." 

"  Yes.  That's  it.  Womanly  woman.  Clever 
chap,  you  are,  Raynes.  Always  knew  you  were  a 
clever  chap.  Hit  it  exactly.  Womanly  woman. 
Jus'  what  I  meant." 

"  And  by  a  womanly  woman  you  mean  one  who 
has  a  great  deal  of  motherly  feeling,  don't  you?  A 
woman  who'd  have  the  gentle  guiding  hand  .  .  .?  " 

"  Yes,  that's  it."  Molesworth's  ecstasy  quick- 
ened.    "  Gentle    guiding    hand.     'Xac'ly.     That's 


324  The  Buffoon 


what  I  want.  'Xac'ly  what  I  want.  Kind  of 
woman  who  wouldn't  preach;  keep  you  straight 
without  your  knowin'  it,  y'  know.  Jus'  because  she's 
so  —  because  she's  so  — " 

"  Good  and  sweet  and  pure  herself.     What?  " 

"  That's  it.  Damn  it  all,  makes  one  feel  a  bit  of 
a  fool  puttin'  it  into  words,  bit  of  a  hypocritical  ass. 
But,  hang  it,  even  if  one  is  a  bit  of  a  bad  egg  now 
and  again,  that's  no  reason  why  one  shouldn't  — 
er— " 

"  Cherish  one's  ideals.     Why  not?  " 

"  Right  you  are.  Right  you  are.  Some  good  in 
all  of  us,  eh?  We  may  be  rotters,  but  that  doesn't 
say  we  don't  know  what's  better,  does  it?  " 

"  '  We  are  all  of  us  in  the  gutter,'  "  Edward 
quoted  with  high  sententious  pathos,  "  '  but  some  of 
us  are  looking  at  the  stars.'  " 

"  By  Jove,  that's  fine, —  splendid.  '  All  of  us 
lookin'  at  the  stars  ' —  no,  what  is  it?  '  In  the  gut- 
ter, but  — '     How  does  it  go,  eh  ?  " 

Edward  repeated  the  quotation.  Molesworth 
was  silent  for  awhile,  absorbing  the  spiritual  beauty 
of  the  idea. 

"  Good  as  a  sermon,"  he  said  at  last.  "  Wonder- 
ful idea.  That's  the  way  I  often  feel.  Never  could 
have  put  it  like  that,  though.  Wonderful,  the  way 
some  chaps  — wonderful  — '  In  the  gutter,  lookin'  at 
the  stars.'  " 

"  Looking  at  one  star,"  Edward  gently  corrected. 
"  The  star  of  your  ideal  woman,  the  woman  who 


The  Buffoon  325 

would  want  you  all  to  herself, —  so  much  to  herself 
that  she'd  be  jealous  of  your  vices.  The  woman 
who'd  be  ready  to  forgive  your  lapses  in  order  to 
strengthen  her  hold  over  you,  to  establish  her  posi- 
tion of  superiority.  The  moral  tyrant,  the  emo- 
tional egotist, —  yes,  yes,  I  know." 

"  Strengthen  .  .  .  ready  to  forgive  .  .  ."  mur- 
mured Molesworth,  who  was  now  lapping  up  a 
brandy-and-soda.  "  Ready  to  forgive. —  Yes, 
'swhat  we  all  need,  to  be  forgiven.  Forgive  us  our 
—  hie  —  treshpasses.  That's  religion,  isn't  it?  By 
Jimminy,  Raynes," —  he  spolce  excitedly,  struck  by 
an  unexpected  thought,  a  thought  of  flaming  original- 
ity,— "  why,  religion  and  love  have  a  damn  lot  in 
common,  haven't  they?  Don't  know  how  to  'xpresh 
it, —  but  a  feller  likes  to  feel  there's  some  one  who'll 
forgive  him,  don't  he?  Likes  to  feel  that  every- 
thing can  be  sort  of  wiped  out,  eh?  " 

"  Human  nature,  my  dear  fellow,  human  nature." 
"  That's  it.  And,  y'  know," —  Molesworth  was 
rapidly  approaching  his  most  communicative  stage, — 
"  a  chap  who  knows  he's  a  bad  egg,  and  has  the 
decency  to  be  a  bit  sick  about  it,  and  sort  o'  wants 
to  blot  his  book,  and  be  a  different  sort  o'  chap, — 
you  understand  what  I  mean, —  well,  he  Isn'  really 
such  a  bad  egg  after  all,  is  he, —  what?  It's  the 
feller  who's  content  with  bein'  a  rotter  and  makes  out 
that  it's  all  right  bein'  a  rotter,  he's  the  real  wrong 
'un.  What  do  you  think?  Those  blackguards  who 
go  on  about  free  love,  talk  against  marriage  and  the 


326  The  Buffoon 

Church,  and  all  that  sort  o'  thing.  They  ought  to 
be  well  flogged,  the  hounds,  the  whole  lot  of 
em.  .  .  . 

"  Of  course.  We  can  wink  at  the  natural  in- 
firmities of  sinful  doers,  but  sinful  talkers  put  our 
moral  backs  up.  Perfectly  natural.  When  we  want 
to  relapse  on  the  need  of  forgiveness,  it's  simply  ex- 
asperating of  people  to  go  and  argue  that  we've 
nothing  to  be  forgiven  for.  Your  point  of  view  is 
eternally  popular,  Molesworth.  All  our  parsons 
and  most  of  our  novelists  would  starve  if  it  weren't. 
It  makes  everything  so  beautifully  easy;  it  saves  so 
much  trouble  for  the  mind.      Delightful!  " 

"  Look  here !  "  Molesworth  was  as  near  feeling 
uneasy  as  he  could  be  in  that  stage  of  intoxication. 
"  You're  not  one  of  those  beastly  cynical  fellers, 
Raynes,  now,  are  you?  No  good  in  anything,  and 
all  that  sort  of  tosh,  eh?  " 

"  Well,  I'm  going  to  be  married.  That  doesn't 
look  like  cynicism,  does  It?  " 

"  Goin'  to  be  married!  By  Jove,  though,  are 
you?  Congratulate  you,  old  chap, —  congratulate 
you  heartily!  Good  luck!  Chin-chin!"  He 
raised  his  glass.  "  Goin'  to  be  married!  Must 
have  another  drink  on  the  strength  of  it.  Well, 
I'm  damned!  Never  thought  you  were  a  marryin' 
kind  of  a  chap, —  don't  know  why, —  but  somehow 
—  I  say,  sorry  I  rotted  you  about  goin'  to  Westbeach 
and    girls    and    all    that.     Must    really    'pologlse. 


The  Buffoon  327 

Didn't  know,  of  course. —  B.  &  S.  ?  Is  yours  a 
B.  &  S.?" 

Edward  nodded.  "  Never  mind,"  he  said.  "  Of 
course  you  couldn't  have  guessed  that  I'd  taken  out 
a  patent  of  respectability.  Going  to  be  married 
makes  a  lot  of  difference,  of  course.  Being  ac- 
tually married  makes  more.  Just  look  at  those  fel- 
lows over  in  that  corner.  You  could  tell  at  a  glance 
that  McBain  and  Vickers  are  married,  and  Moseley 
and  Greene  and  the  other  man  bachelors,  couldn't 
you?  McBain  and  Vickers  have  a  sort  of  wary 
look,  haven't  they,  as  though  they'd  learnt  what  to 
do,  and  what  not  to  do,  what  to  say,  and  what  not 
to  say, —  as  though  they'd  formed  the  habit  of  put- 
ting everything  that  crops  up  into  relation  with  some- 
thing that  is  always  there?  " 

"  See  what  you  mean. —  Yes. —  Well,  here's 
luck  again."  They  both  raised  their  glasses. 
"Kind  of  a  married  look, —  yes,  that's  true. 
Damned  good  thing  for  most  men,  though,  marriage, 
—  all  the  same.  Wish  I  could  —  If  only  the  right 
girl  came  along  and  I  wasn't  so  beastly  hard  up, — 
well,  can't  be  helped." 

He  drank  again,  and  Edward  looked  at  him,  re- 
garding with  quickened  interest  this  conventional 
debauche,  with  his  sentimental  aspirations  for  moral 
redemption.  Edward  had  a  sudden  curiosity  to  see 
how  Eunice  would  react  to  Molesworth's  type. 
What  would  she  make  of  him,  how  would  her  pose 


328  The  Buffoon 

adjust  itself  to  that  so  very  representative  point  of 
view? 

"  Ah."  Edward  looked  at  his  watch.  "  Missed 
my  train  because  I  couldn't  tear  myself  away  from 
you."  He  took  a  telegraph  form  and  began  writing 
a  wire  to  his  mother  in  Westbeach.  "  Coming  back 
in  two  or  three  days.  You're  in  London  more  or 
less  indefinitely,  aren't  you  ?  Well,  I  want  to  intro- 
duce you  to  my  fiancee.     Don't  forget." 

Molesworth  made  an  anticipated  remark,  and  Ed- 
ward went. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

ON  the  journey  to  Westbeach  Edward  lapsed 
again  to  coma.  He  was  exhausted,  drained. 
He  found  himself  regarding  his  mind  as  an 
empty  field,  a  denuded  patch  of  ground,  a  site  laid 
completely  bare.  The  lavatory  door  opposite  his 
corner  seat  was  inscribed  "  Vacant " :  Edward 
looked  steadily  at  the  word  for  some  minutes.  "  '  Va- 
cant,' "  he  murmured  at  last.  "  '  Vacant.'  How 
happily  put.  Yes,  that  is  exactly  it."  He  saw  him- 
self in  the  mirror:  yes,  he  was  pale,  for  him;  he  was 
rather  drawn;  he  was  physically  drained,  too,  that 
was  evident.  Those  lines  by  his  mouth  were  cer- 
tainly more  deeply  cut  than  usual.  He  felt  as  though 
he  had  had  fever,  and  his  temperature  were  now 
rather  below  normal.  The  roof  of  his  mouth  was 
cold.  He  had  a  curious  sensation  In  his  legs,  as 
though  the  bone  had  been  sharpened. 

He  leaned  back,  opened  his  evening  paper,  and 
began  to  read  grotesque  irrelevancies  about  politics. 
The  Irish  crisis.  .  .  .  Once  again  he  felt  an  indif- 
ferent and  jaded  wonder  that  human  beings  should 
spend  so  much  of  their  time  and  force  running  round 
and  round  about  main  issues.  Everywhere  there 
was  energy  without  insight;  that  was  the  key,  per- 
haps, to  the  stupidities  and  cruelties  of  the  world. 

329 


330  The  Buffoon 

The  further  West  you  were,  the  more  energy,  the 
less  insight;  the  further  East,  the  more  insight,  the 
less  energy:  and  superstitions  everywhere,  even 
among  the  wisest.  Most  destructive  of  all  were  the 
superstitions  about  women.  .  .  . 

He  dropped  the  paper,  and  his  brain  automati- 
cally formed  an  image  of  Eunice,  a  clear  image,  rav- 
ishing him  with  its  detail.  He  saw  her  listening 
to  him,  with  delicately  contracted  brows,  and  eyes 
troubled  under  their  wavering  deep  lashes:  her 
mouth  was  quivering  very  slightly  under  some  im- 
pulse of  expectation,  her  cheeks  coloured  faintly  with 
an  exquisite,  uncomprehended  shame.  Edward  fol- 
lowed the  virginal  lines  of  her  neck  till  they  disap- 
peared towards  her  imagined  breasts:  he  followed 
the  swaying  curves  of  her  long  slim  figure,  he 
thought  of  what  her  slender  flanks  and  epicene  knees 
must  be, —  sudden  in  his  sight,  how  candid,  how  as- 
tonishing, and  touched  by  what  dreams  of  ancient 
ages !  He  sighed  heavily,  he  desperately  desired 
embraces.  Would  he  ever  enjoy  them,  such  em- 
braces as  those?  Embraces  given  in  his  own  way, 
without  thought  of  what  would  come  of  them,  with- 
out thought  of  possible  reactions  in  direction  of  loss 
or  gain, —  embraces  banished,  in  fact,  from  that  eter- 
nal arena  of  sex  conflict,  embraces  freed  from  the 
tyranny  of  the  feminine  sex-ego?  Impossible,  of 
course.  Civilised  women  could  not  deal  in  any  pas- 
sion so  clear,  so  simple,  so  detached  as  that.  Nor 
could  any  woman  brought  up  with  the  house  of  bond- 


The  Buffoon  331 

age  in  full  view.  Inheritors  of  that  house  they  all 
were,  intimate  on  Instinct  with  every  chamber,  every 
passage  In  it.  Well,  they  had  their  revenge :  stupid 
males  paid  a  larger  share  of  the  account  than  they 
did,  after  all. 

Edward  took  out  his  pipe  and  cleaned  It  with  spills 
made  from  his  journal.  The  effort  worried  him,  he 
laid  the  pipe  on  the  seat.  The  further  efforts  of 
fining  and  lighting  were  really  too  much.  He  closed 
his  eyes,  Eunice's  Image  presented  Itself  again,  he 
thought  of  her  as  she  was,  as  he  would  have  her  be. 
Why  could  he  not,  he  reflected  angrily,  be  fooled  as 
lovers  always  were  into  that  usual  emotional  coinci- 
dent view  of  the  ideal  and  the  real?  "  I'm  a  rotten 
lover!"  Still, —  he  swore  it, —  he  would  go  on: 
wilful  and  seeing,  he  would  go  on. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

IT  was  about  eight  o'clock  when  Edward  reached 
Westbeach.  His  mother  was  at  the  station. 
Edward  was  surprised  to  see  her;  he  had  quite 
forgotten  about  his  mother.  Of  course,  though,  she 
would  be  at  the  station ;  she  would  never  let  slip  any 
opportunity  of  displaying  maternal  devotion.  Ed- 
ward noted  the  look  of  absorption,  thickly  spread 
over  her  face  as  she  stood  waiting, —  waiting  for 
him,  for  her  "  dear  boy,"  as  no  doubt  she  had  been 
saying  to  herself  over  and  over  again  for  the  last 
twenty  minutes.  The  pecuhar  grossness  of  maternal 
lust  struck  him  suddenly.  He  had  revolted  from 
it  before,  but  it  was  with  an  enhanced  fastidiousness 
that  he  revolted  now. 

"  Well,  Mother,"  he  said  aloud,  "  it  was  good  of 
you  to  come  to  the  station."  And  to  himself: 
"  There  is  nothing  really  good  in  anything  you  do 
for  me;  there  is  nothing  but  unintelligent,  disgusting 
self-indulgence." 

She  clasped  his  hand,  kissed  him,  gave  him  a 
greedy  look.  "  My  dear  boy !  "  she  said ;  and  again, 
"  My  dear  boy!  "  He  had  known  she  would  say  it. 
He  had  known  that  her  eyes  would  fill  with  tears. 
How  dreadful  it  was  when  people  behaved  so  pre- 
cisely in  accordance  with  type. 

332 


The  Buffo 071  333 

"  Why  did  you  take  that  bag  with  you  ?  "  he  asked 
her.  "  It  must  have  been  awkward  to  carry,  espe- 
cially as  you  have  an  umbrella  as  well." 

"Oh.  Yes,  I'm  afraid  —  I  know  it  is  rather 
shabby,  a  poor  shabby  old  thing,  but  I  — " 

"  The  point  isn't  whether  it's  shabby  or  not.  I 
asked  why  did  you  take  it."  Edward  could  not  help 
speaking  with  some  asperity.  These  crooked  an- 
swers always  annoyed  him.  His  mother's  face  took 
on  that  patient  look  he  knew  so  well. 

"  I  took  it,"  she  replied  gently,  with  restrained  re- 
monstrance, "  to  bring  some  letters  of  yours  that 
came  to-day.  I  thought  you  might  like  to  have  them 
at  once."     She  unfastened  the  bag  and  fumbled  in  it. 

Edward  looked  away,  and  raised  his  stick  in  sig- 
nal to  a  cabman.  "  Come  along.  Mother,"  he  said, 
"  there's  a  cab  over  there."  She  held  out  his  letters 
appealingly :  they  were  tied  carefully  round  with  blue 
ribbon.  "  I  don't  want  them  now,"  he  told  her. 
"  Why  should  I  want  to  read  them  at  the  station?  " 

His  mother  put  back  the  little  packet,  with  a  sub- 
dued sigh  of  disappointment  tempered  by  resignation. 
Edward  was  momentarily  ashamed  of  himself.  Of 
course  any  one  would  say  he  had  behaved  abom- 
inably, and  certainly  he  had  behaved  with  extreme 
rudeness,  the  kind  of  rudeness  that  is  only  possible  in 
family  life.  He  might  at  least  have  taken  the  let- 
ters and  put  them  in  his  pocket  without  saying  any- 
thing, especially  as  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen 
his    mother    for    two    or    three    months.     But    he 


334  The  Buffoon 


couldn't  have  done  that,  he  always  had  found  It  Im- 
possible to  treat  his  mother  anyhow  except  brutally 
on  such  occasions  as  these.  Brutality  seemed  in- 
stinctively adopted  for  self-preservation.  Edward 
knew  so  exasperatingly  well  why  his  mother  had  tied 
up  those  letters,  why  she  had  brought  them  to  the 
station  in  that  cumbrous  black  bag:  It  was  all  done 
to  give  herself  the  luxury  of  taking  petty  pains  for 
him.  The  unintelllgence  of  It,  the  crude  selfishness 
of  it,  struck  him  with  especially  unpleasing  force  as 
he  walked  with  her  to  the  cab.  Surely  his  mother 
must  have  known,  at  this  time  of  day,  that  attentions 
of  that  kind  annoyed  him  by  their  pointlessness. 
Did  mothers  learn  nothing?  She  hadn't,  of  course, 
done  it  deliberately  to  annoy;  she  really  did  think 
now  that  she  was  abused;  she  enjoyed  being  abused, 
she  extracted  a  wretched  satisfaction  out  of  being 
placed  In  a  pathetic  situation.  Always  the  appeal! 
Women  would  compass  that,  at  whatever  cost.  Ed- 
ward sat  in  the  cab,  reflecting  moodily  by  his  mother's 
side.  "The  devoted  mother!  The  undutlful 
son!  "  He  saw  their  reflections  in  the  looking- 
glass. 

"Have  you  had  your  dinner?"  Mrs.  Raynes 
broke  the  silence. 

It  was  so  characteristic,  Edward  felt,  it  meant  so 
much,  that  putting  in  of  the  word  "  your."  "  Your 
dinner!  "  She  couldn't  have  said,  "  Have  you  had 
dinner?  "  as  Molesworth,  for  example,  would  cer- 
tainly have  put  it.     No:  it  had  to  be  his  dinner,  a 


The  Buffoon  335 

dinner  jealously  consecrated  to  his  use,  to  the  maw 
of  her  son.  Edward  felt  that  he  was  messed  up  with 
his  dinner  in  a  revolting  way;  he  felt  as  though  his 
nose  had  been  rubbed  In  It.  It  was  a  relief  that  he 
hadn't  dined.  Would  Eunice  be  making  inquiries 
about  "your"  dinner  later  on  .  .  .  ?  Impossible! 
That  could  never  be  endured. 

"  Is  any  telegraph-office  open  now?  "  he  asked,  in- 
stead of  answering  his  mother's  question. 

"  No,"  she  replied,  with  nervous  promptness, 
"  not  after  eight  o'clock.  They  are  never  open  after 
eight  o'clock. —     At  least,  not  on  Sundays." 

"  To-day  isn't  Sunday." 

"  And  then  they  open  from  six  to  eight.  And  on 
Sunday  mornings  they  open  up  till  ten,  I  mean  the 
main  Office  does.  I  think  from  eight  to  ten,  but  I 
couldn't  be  quite  sure." 

She  spoke  breathlessly;  she  grew  more  nervous. 
Edward  remembered  that  a  direct  question,  unex- 
pectedly put,  always  scared  her.  Was  it  that  she 
suspected  some  alarming  secret  motive  that  had  noth- 
ing to  do  with  the  question  at  all?  Her  tone  in  re- 
ply suggested  an  apprehension  of  ambuscades.  Or 
was  it  that  she  was  afraid,  somehow  obliquely,  of 
giving  herself  away?  Anyhow,  she  always  an- 
swered like  this,  again  she  was  true  to  type :  she  al- 
ways answered  promptly,  more  or  less  unhelpfully, 
and  then  trailed  off  into  a  mass  of  irrelevancies  and 
ambiguities. 

"  But,  Mother,  it  isn't  Sunday,"  Edward  repeated, 


336  The  Buffoon 


Increasingly  enraged  with  himself  for  his  irritation. 

"  Not  Sunday.  Oh,  no,  of  course  it  isn't  Sunday. 
I  didn't  mean,  Edward,  you  know  I  didn't  mean  that 
I  thought  it  was  Sunday.  A  week-day,  of  course; 
Thursday.  But  I  was  afraid  I  had  mixed  up  the 
Sunday  hours  with  the  week-day  ones.  I  do  make 
mistakes  sometimes.  I'm  afraid  I'm  getting  old," 
she  added  appealingly. 

That  perpetual  appeal!  Everything  resolved  It- 
self to  that.  And  wasn't  Eunice,  Edward  reflected, 
In  the  same  case?  Wasn't  she  always  concerned 
with  her  appeal  to  him,  never  with  what  he  thought 
or  said?  Could  it  be  that  all  women  were  confined 
to  this  one  subject  of  interest,  to  this  thin  special 
egotism?  Betty  was  different,  though;  Betty  was 
saved  by  the  grossness  of  her  hedonism;  if  she 
wanted  to  appeal  it  was  to  get  the  pleasure  that  her 
nature  called  for.  That  was  quite  right.  And 
Betty  got  what  she  wanted  and  was  content.  Other 
women  would  dislike  her  for  that.  She  had  often 
said  that  she  was  unpopular  with  girls. —  Eunice, 
on  the  other  hand, —  but  it  was  useless  to  criticise 
Eunice,  because  he  had  a  powerful  desire  for  her,  an 
Increasing  desire.  With  Betty  he  had  reached  the 
end,  no  further  revelation  was  possible, —  there  had 
really  never  been  any  revelation  except  a  revelation 
of  type;  plenty  of  other  girls  could  have  given  that, 
In  almost  the  same  way,  with  just  the  same  result. 
Whereas,  when  he  married  Eunice,  a  thousand  un- 
expected things  might  happen:  marriage  would  di- 


The  Buffoon  yhl 

vert,  surely  it  would,  the  energy  which  now  went  to 
enforce  that  cursed  inevitable  appeal  .  .  .  yes,  when 
she  reached  the  goal  to  which  the  appeal  was  di- 
rected .  .  .  but  could  he  be  sure  what  that  goal  was  ? 
Did  it  exist?  Perhaps  by  this  time  it  had  disap- 
peared altogether:  perhaps  the  appeal  by  now  had 
grown  to  be  permanently  an  end  in  itself.   .  -  . 

"  I  hope  you  aren't  vexed  about  the  Post  Office, 
dear,"  said  his  mother. 

"  I'm  not  vexed  because  you  don't  know  when  they 
shut.  Why  should  you  have  to  know?  What  an- 
noys me  is  that  you  don't  say  at  once  that  you  don't 
know.  Why  do  you  say  s>o  many  other  things  in- 
stead?    It's  a  waste  of  time." 

Mrs.  Raynes  sighed  as  before.  "  I'm  afraid 
something  must  have  happened  to  upset  you,"  she 
said,  very  sweetly.  The  cab  stopped  at  her  house, 
and  they  got  out. 

"When  does  the  main  Telegraph  Office  close?" 
Edward  asked  the  cabman  as  he  paid  him. 

"  Eight  o'clock,  sir." 

"  I  am  so  sorry,"  remarked  Edward's  mother  as 
they  went  in.  "  What  a  pity  it  is  that  you  can't 
send  your  telegram  to-night,"  she  added  as  he  took 
his  gloves  off  in  the  hall;  and  as  they  walked  upstairs 
together  she  said  that  she  did  so  hope  the  telegram 
wasn't  important.  She  rubbed  it  in;  she  was 
really  malicious  in  her  quiet  maternal  way. 

Edward  was  silent.  "  Of  course,"  he  thought, 
"  my  telegram  only  affects  her  in  relation  to  her  own 


338  The  Buffoon 

field  of  play:  only  as  it  comes  within  the  sphere  of 
her  *  maternal  interest,' —  that  vicarious  egotism 
which  makes  her  want  every  wish  of  mine  to  be  grati- 
fied, and  gratified,  if  possible,  through  her,  with 
pains  to  her.  The  telegram  was  a  piece  in  this  game 
of  hers  that  I  refused  to  play,  so  now  she's  using  it, 
still  as  a  piece,  in  her  other  game  of  getting  even 
with  me."  He  mused  on  the  difference  of  the  rela- 
tions between  mothers  and  sons  and  mothers  and 
daughters,  as  he  washed  his  hands.  On  the  whole 
he  thought  that  he  preferred  the  freemasonry  and 
the  antagonisms  of  the  common  sex. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

THE  gong  sounded,  Edward  went  down  and 
found  his  mother  expectant  of  him  in  the 
hall. 

"  You  have  something  cold  for  me?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  Edward,  we  haven't  had  dinner.  Of 
course  we  put  it  off  till  you  came." 

"  Why  should  you  ?     And  who  are  '  we  '  ?  " 

"  Your  Aunt  Amelia  is  here.     Didn't  I  tell  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  perhaps  you  did." 

*'  But  I  don't  suppose  you  trouble  to  read  all  my 
poor  old  letters." 

She  gave  her  familiar  sigh.  It  implied  stressed 
and  wilful  consciousness  of  an  insignificance  which 
must  of  course  be  always  ignored,  was  used  to  the 
fate,  and  in  patience  and  control  blamed  nobody  for 
It.  Edward  looked  sharply  at  his  mother,  and  re- 
flected that  Christianity  did  most  harm  of  all  to  peo- 
ple of  her  type. 

"  Well,  I'd  much  rather  you  had  dined  at  your 
usual  time.  I  hate  having  things  put  off  for  me. 
And  at  any  rate  you  shouldn't  have  made  Aunt  Amy 
wait.  Nearly  half  past  eight  now,  and  you  generally 
dine  at  seven."  What  irritated  Edward  was  the  pro- 
motion, by  tone,  by  look,  of  this  putting  off  of  din- 
ner to  the  rank  of  a  sacrificial  act. 

339 


340  The  Buffoon 


Aunt  Amelia  came  downstairs.  Edward  greeted 
her  with  pleasure.  He  was  glad  she  was  there  to 
relieve  the  tension  of  an  evening  with  his  mother. 
The  aunt  was  an  old  maid  of  nearly  sixty,  his 
mother's  younger  sister,  much  more  robust  than  she, 
florid,  energetic,  heavily  built,  talkative,  cheerful. 
She  had  been  an  Alpine  climber,  and  cherished  ex- 
uberant sentiments  for  Switzerland  and  Tyrol. 
Two  very  long  engagements  had  enlivened  her 
maiden  years:  her  first  man  had  disgracefully  jilted 
her  in  favour  of  a  pretty  schoolgirl, —  an  event 
which  she  had  accepted  with  dignity  and  calm;  her 
second  admirer  had  died  of  consumption.  She  was 
between  thirty  and  forty  then,  and  abandoned  with 
brusque  decision  all  further  thoughts  of  marriage,  de- 
voting herself  to  the  Alps  with  Increasing  enthusiasm. 
She  also  painted  landscapes  in  water-colour,  and  ad- 
hered with  vigour  and  resolution  to  the  tenets  of 
the  non-militant  Suffragists.  Edward  could  see  her 
character  spread  out  before  him  like  a  map,  with 
every  bay  and  promontory  clearly  marked,  unmistak- 
able, permanent. 

"  You're  looking  pulled  down,  Teddy,"  she  said 
quickly.  "  I  always  tell  you  you  don't  take  enough 
exercise."  She  was  the  only  person  who  called  him 
"  Teddy,"  and  his  mother  resented  the  abbreviation 
very  much. 

"  Exercise !  I've  been  playing  tennis  and  going 
for  terrific  walks." 

"  Well,  you're  looking  seedy." 


The  Buffoon  341 

"  I  don't  think  so  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Raynes  in  an 
aggrieved  tone.     "  Do  let  us  come  to  dinner." 

"  I  shall  take  you  for  a  terrific  walk  to-morrow 
morning  along  by  the  sea,"  Aunt  Amelia  declared 
when  they  had  settled  themselves  at  the  table. 

"  Perhaps  he  has  some  writing  to  do." 

"  Writing !  What  kind  of  writing,  Teddy  ?  Oh, 
yes,  you  did  try  to  write  a  novel  or  a  play  or  some- 
thing once,  didn't  you  ?  " 

"  He  will  write  something  worth  reading  one  of 
these  days,  you'll  see."  Mrs.  Raynes  was  annoyed 
by  her  sister's  casual  tone.  "  I  thought  perhaps  he 
had  come  home  to  be  quiet  for  his  work." 

"  No,  I  came  home  to  tell  you  that  I  am  engaged 
to  be  married." 

Mrs.  Raynes  turned  pale,  and  Aunt  Amelia's  face 
was  the  deepest  tone  of  red. 

"What!"  she  exclaimed  in  a  loud  voice. 
"  What !     How  you  spring  it  on  us  !     Well !  " 

Mrs.  Raynes  looked  at  her  reprovingly,  then  fixed 
a  passionate  gaze  on  her  son.  Her  little  bright 
hazel  eyes  filled  with  tears  and  her  thin  purple  lips 
quivered.  "My  dear  boy!"  she  faltered.  "My 
dear  boy."  She  laid  down  her  soup-spoon.  The 
maid  came  back  at  that  moment,  and  Edward  quickly 
changed  the  subject. 

"  You  bring  back  my  childhood  to  me  surprisingly 
vividly,  Aunt  Amy.  You  are  exactly  the  same  as 
you  were  then.  I  look  down  and  expect  to  see  my- 
self in  knickerbockers.     How  very  strange,"  he  went 


342  The  Buffoon 

on,  "  that  I  can  remember  you  when  you  were  the 
age  I  am  now.  I  don't  know  that  I  like  that, — 
altogether." 

"  I'm  quite  sure  /  don't  like  it!  "  his  aunt  laughed. 
"  I  don't  think  you're  very  tactful." 

"  My  dear  Amy,"  said  Mrs.  Raynes,  "  we  have 
to  get  older."  Her  tone  implied  that  it  was  the 
Lord's  will,  and  that  there  was  something  of  an  am- 
biguously finer  shade  than  satisfaction  to  be  derived 
from  that. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  Edward  continued  his  re- 
trospect, "  how  I  used  to  do  gymnastics  with  your 
Alpenstock?" 

His  mother  grew  restive  at  the  approach  of  remi- 
niscences that  put  the  aunt  in  the  foreground  of  Ed- 
ward's experience.  "  You're  still  a  young  man,  Ed- 
ward. Every  one  under  forty  is  young."  She 
pointed  the  observation. 

Her  son  was  amused  in  noticing  how,  immediately 
after  displaying  her  preoccupations  with  her  sister, 
she  recaptured  that  emotional  faltering  look  evoked 
by  the  announcement  of  his  engagement.  Ingrained 
habit  oscillated  in  sway  with  convention  enforced  for 
the  special  occasion.  Edward  was  reminded  of  an 
uncle  of  his  whom,  as  a  small  boy,  he  had  observed 
taking  snuff  In  quite  his  usual  manner  at  his  wife's 
funeral. 

"  Young!  "  Edward  took  a  bone  from  his  fish. 
"  Yes,  but  I  want  to  lie  in  my  bed  in  the  nursery,  and 
watch  the  shadows  from  the  firelight  flickering  all 


The  Buffoon  343 

about  the  room.  Do  you  remember  that  enormous 
fender,  with  its  long  thin  iron  rails  ?  Their  shadows 
were  terrifying,  fascinating:  I  shall  never  forget 
them.  No  one  could  forget  them. —  Fhckering 
shadows  from  the  fire  — "  His  thoughts  turned  to 
the  Liverpool  evening.  What  would  his  aunt  think 
of  that  kind  of  an  escapade?  What  his  mother 
would  think  did  not  interest  him. 

Mrs.  Raynes  looked  sentimentally  at  her  son. 
"  I  remember  it  all  so  well."  She  lowered  her  voice. 
"  That  little  room, —  when  you  were  a  little,  little 
boy." 

Edward  frowned.  He  could  imagine  Eunice  re- 
plying in  almost  exactly  the  same  way. 

"  Not  such  a  little  room,"  Aunt  Amelia  put  in. 
"  It  was  one  of  the  largest  rooms  in  the  house." 

"  I  remember  my  grandfather  coming  in  on  New 
Year's  Eve,  and  waking  me  up  and  giving  me  a  new 
half-crown.  'Here's  good  luck  for  1887,'  he  said, 
and  I  wondered  what  1887  might  be.  It  meant 
nothing  whatever  to  me,  except  that  it  was  a  sort  of 
mystical  abracadabra,  and  appealed  to  my  imagina- 
tion. You  are  very  like  grandfather."  Edward 
turned  to  his  aunt.     "  In  looks,  I  mean." 

"  So  are  you,"  Aunt  Amelia  replied. 

Mrs.  Raynes  bridled.  "  I  don't  think  so  at  all," 
she  said,  peevish  and  on  her  dignity  at  the  same  time. 
"  He  is  like  his  father." 

"  Well,  he  enjoys  life  like  his  grandfather.  He 
has  the  same  sanguine  temperament." 


344  The  Buffoon 

"  I  believe,  you  know,"  Edward  could  not  resist 
saying  this,  "  that  most  people  would  take  you  for 
my  mother,  Aunt  Amy." 

"  Come,  tell  us  about  your  engagement,"  his  aunt 
interrupted  hurriedly.  The  maid  had  left  them 
again.  Edward's  mother  looked  up,  in  wan  devo^- 
tion,  with  an  attenuated  smile. 

"  Her  name  Is  Eunice  Dinwiddle,"  Edward  in- 
formed them.  "  An  American,  living  in  London. 
Age,  I  think,  twenty-six  or  twenty-seven.  She  Is  un- 
usually tall,  unusually  slender,  hair  rather  light- 
brown,  grey-green  eyes,  complexion  rather  pale,  fea- 
tures that  you'd  call  characteristic,  unmistakable, 
modelling  very  clear  and  sharply  defined.  Tend- 
ency to  the  Greek,  but  the  nose  a  shade  undersize 
for  the  rest.  However  the  curves  of  her  cheeks 
are  —  well,  they  are  remarkable, —  subtle  and  deli- 
cate,—  the  curves  of  her  neck,  too.  Her  mouth  is 
beyond  criticism,  neither  too  small  nor  too  large; 
really,  speaking  soberly,  It  is  perfect.  And  so  is  her 
figure.  I  have  never  seen  any  one  so  graceful  and 
so  tall." 

"  I  like  the  way  you  describe  her."  Aunt  Amelia 
had  been  regarding  him  closely. 

"  Oh,  I  am  sure  she  must  be  a  very  sweet  girl," 
his  mother  said  timidly,  and  Edward's  soul  blushed. 
"  We  must  have  a  long,  long  talk  about  her  very 
soon."  She  looked  significantly  at  him.  Again  the 
thrust  for  Aunt  Amy ! 

But  after  all  this  was  nothing.     Edward  remem- 


The  Buffoon  345 

bered  how  his  mother  behaved  with  another  aunt,  a 
widow,  his  father's  sister.  This  lady  was  apt  for 
intrigues  of  nagging,  she  pricked  incessantly  under 
cover,  she  sparred  with  mean  covert  claws,  yet  man- 
aged to  "  keep  her  end  up  "  as  an  amiable  sweet  crea- 
ture all  the  time.  Edward  was  sure  that  her  little 
ways  had  killed  her  husband;  he  could  not  imagine 
any  man  living  on  with  her.  But  his  mother  derived 
actual  satisfaction  from  those  encounters,  there  was 
no  doubt  of  it.  How  clearly  he  recalled  their  odi- 
ousness,  and  his  own  disgust!  If  only  elders  knew 
how  mercilessly  critical  children  are  !  As  a  boy  Ed- 
ward had  attended  to  these  recurrent  interchanges 
of  female  malice,  he  had  noted  the  methods  of  fe- 
male antagonisms,  it  had  been  brought  home  to  him 
that  here  were  unpleasant  animals  of  a  race  different 
from  his  own.  Those  endless  small  disputes,  the 
subjects  of  which  were  never  either  clearly  defined 
or  of  any  importance,  defined  or  not;  those  perpetual 
wilful,  or  if  not  wilful,  incredibly  unintelligent  mis- 
understandings; that  equally  perpetual  reduction  of 
any  matter  to  the  crudest  personal  level;  that  expo- 
sure of  feelings  as  of  boils,  that  exasperating  inability 
to  connect  facts  or  draw  conclusions,  that  damnable 
reference,  at  every  conceivable  point,  to  some  fixed 
convention.  ..."  They  are  not  decent,"  he  said 
to  himself,  "  women  are  not  decent."  All  the  fault 
of  men's  selfishness  and  men's  lust,  no  doubt,  but, 
good  Lord !  to  think  that  women  would  be  cured  by 
the  vote,  by  "  an  unimportant  reform  In  an  obsolete 


346  The  Buffoon 

political  system."  Could  they  be  cured?  Edward 
glanced  at  his  mother.  "  Mrs.  William  Raynes, 
eternally  damned,"  he  thought. 

"  You  are  lost,"  said  Aunt  Amelia  suddenly. 
"  What  are  you  thinking  about?  " 

Mrs.  Raynes  looked  vexed  by  a  question  that  she 
liked  to  consider  tactless  and  inconsiderate.  "  We 
can  guess,  my  dear,"  she  remarked,  "  where  his 
thoughts  are  now."  She  paused  wistfully,  and 
sighed. 

"  Of  course  you  can  guess.  They  are  with  Abra- 
ham Lincoln." 

"My  dear  boy!" 

"  Abraham  Lincoln!  "  echoed  Aunt  Amelia.  "  I 
haven't  thought  of  him  since  I  was  at  school." 

"  The  main  concern,"  said  Edward  solemnly,  "  is 
to  turn  women  into  decent  creatures.  If  I  could 
do  this  by  giving  them  all  the  vote,  I  would  do  it. 
If  I  could  do  this  by  keeping  them  all  without  a  vote, 
I  would  do  it.  If  I  could  do  this  by  giving  some  of 
them  the  vote  and  not  others,  I  would  also  do  that. 
'  But,  good  Lord,'  I  hear  my  friend  Jack  Welsh  say- 
ing, '  do  you  want  them  to  be  decent?  I  don't.  A 
great  mistake,  my  dear  friend,  a  great  mistake.' 
And  he  may  be  right, —  he  may  be  right." 

"  But  what  has  all  that  got  to  do  with  Abraham 
Lincoln?  "  asked  his  aunt. 

"  Oh,  nothing  much.  That  was  only  my  silly  tom- 
foolery. I  am  an  unaccountable  ass  sometimes. 
Aunt  Amy, —  generally,  in  fact.     It  partly  comes  of 


The  Buffoon  347 

having  been  to  Cambridge.  Oxford  men  have  the 
art  of  being  frivolous  and  wise  at  the  same  time. 
We  never  really  attain  to  that." 

Edward's  mother  was  looking  at  him  steadfastly: 
she  seemed  rather  alarmed.  "  '  Decent!  '  "  she  ex- 
claimed. "  My  dear,  I  don't  know, —  I  can't  think 
what  you  mean.  I'm  sure  —  well,  I  mean  I  hope  — 
You  haven't  heard  about  that  dreadful  girl  in  your 
village,  Edward,  have  you?" 

"What?"  Edward  started.  "I  didn't  know 
there  was  any  dreadful  girl  at  Chesney.  How  very 
unobservant  I  am."  He  glanced  at  Aunt  Amelia, 
who  went  on  eating  her  chicken. 

"  Oh,  yes."  His  mother  flushed  with  excitement, 
and  began  to  speak  with  nervous  rapidity.  "  A 
really  terrible  affair.  It  is.  Such  respectable  people, 
her  father  and  mother.  You  know  them,  of  course, 
—  the  Weekeses." 

"What  really!  Little  Norah  —  how  surprls- 
ing." 

"  Oh,  she  has  behaved  in  the  most  wicked  way. 
I  was  very  much  upset,  very  indignant.  At  her 
age  —  she  can't  be  much  more  than  seventeen, —  a 
mere  child.  Such  dreadful  precocity!  And  when 
she  had  such  a  good  home.  I  did  think,  when  I  was 
with  you  last  year,  that  her  mother  didn't  look  after 
her  quite  carefully  enough;  perhaps  she  didn't  real- 
ise that  she  was  a  grown  girl.  And  her  father,  of 
course, —  a  most  unpractical  man,  who  never  no- 
ticed anything.     But  all  that  would  have  put  any 


348  The  Buffoon 

nice  girl  on  her  honour, —  all  the  more. —  Yes,  it's 
quite  true  what  you  say,  Edward,  some  girls  are  not 
decent.  I  don't  like  to  say  it,  of  cour-se,  but  they 
really  aren't.  To  think  of  all  the  shame  and  wretch- 
edness that  abominable  little  creature  has  brought 
on  her  poor  parents,  and  she's  their  only  daughter; 
as  your  dear  father  said, —  I  remember  it  so  well  his 
saying  this,  it  was  when  there  was  a  terrible  scandal 
in  the  parish,  just  before  you  were  born, —  I  remem- 
ber it  so  well, —  '  It's  the  unpardonable  sin,'  he 
said,  '  it's  the  one  unpardonable  sin.'  He  wasn't 
himself  for  days  and  days,  it  affected  him  so.  He 
was  quite  grave  and  sad,  and  you've  often  heard  me 
say  how  bright  he  always  was,  and  how  fond  of  his 
jokes.  '  Such  a  bad  example  for  all  the  girls  and 
boys  in  the  parish,'  he  said,  and  I'm  sure  this  is  just 
the  same.  It  was  the  Vicar's  wife  who  wrote  to  me 
about  it;  naturally  she  and  Mr.  Hewson  are  very 
much   distressed." 

"  I  wonder  Mrs.  Hewson  should  write  spreading 
the  scandal  abroad,  then." 

"  Yes,  a  fearful  scandal,  of  course  it  is  that.  The 
worst  of  all  scandals.  I  answered  Mrs.  Hewson's 
letter  at  once  — " 

"What  exactly  has  Norah  done?"  Edward  in- 
terrupted impatiently. 

"  I  sympathised  with  her  very  deeply,  of  course.'* 

"What,  with  Norah?" 

"Edward!     Of  course  not.     With  Mrs.   Hew- 


The  Buffoon  349 

son."  Mrs.  Raynes  looked  vexed,  and  Edward  de- 
tected an  improper  gleam  in  his  aunt's  eye.  "  Poor 
Mrs.  Hewson !  It  is  so  trying  and  so  embarrassing 
for  her,  and  for  her  husband  the  Vicar." 

"  Had  he  anything  to  do  with  it  all?  " 

"  Anything  to  do  with  it?  I  don't  know  what  you 
mean,  Edward.     He's  the  spiritual  head  of  the  — " 

"  Well,  well. —  What  was  Norah's  crime,  to  be 
precise?  " 

"  I  tried  to  put  everything  as  tactfully  as  possible 
In  my  letter  to  Mrs.  Hewson,  I  wished  you  had 
been  here,  Edward,  to  have  helped  me.  It  was  only 
a  few  days  ago  that  I  wrote  — " 

"  Ah.     I  was  probably  in  Liverpool." 

"  Of  course  I  could  understand  her  feelings  ex- 
actly, as  she  knew,  having  been  a  Vicar's  wife  my- 
self, and  having  met  with  the  same  experience, —  I 
mean,  having  had  the  same  dreadful  disturbance  In 
our  own  parish.  It  was  a  country  parish,  too,  ver)' 
much  the  same  size  as  Chesney — " 

"  Yes,  but  I'm  not  Interested  In  Mrs.  Hewson  and 
her  feelings.  I've  no  doubt  she  thoroughly  enjoyed 
the  excitement  and  novelty  of  the  affair,  but  what 
does  that  matter?  " 

"  Edward,  I  can't  think  how  you  can  take  such  a 
distorted  view.     Poor  Mrs.  Hewson !  " 

"  But  how  about  poor  Norah?  " 

"  She  went  off  with  a  man,  and  nobody  knows 
where  she  Is."     Aunt  Amelia  answered  him. 


350  The  Buffoon 


"  Oh.  Well,  she  may  be  married.  Anyhow, 
whether  she's  to  be  pitied  or  not  depends  on  the  man. 
Who  is  he?     Does  anybody  know?  " 

"  Nobody  knows,"  said  Mrs.  Raynes  impressively. 
"  It's  so  nice-minded  of  you,  Edward,"  she  added, 
"  to  think  that  she  may  be  married,  but  — " 

The  maid  came  back,  and  the  conversation 
was  resumed  at  dessert.  Edward  was  the  first  to 
speak. 

"  Any  of  the  Chesney  residents  suspiciously  miss- 
ing? "  he  asked,  and  "  By  Jove,"  he  went  on,  "  it's 
just  occurred  to  me,  Vm  missing.  I  wonder  if  they 
suspect  me.  No  doubt  that  was  why  Mrs.  Hewson 
wrote  to  you.  Had  you  any  uneasy  feelings  about 
me,  Mother,  in  that  connection?  " 

"  Don't  say  such  things,  Edward.  Of  course  I 
know  you're  only  joking,  but  you  know  I'd  rather  you 
didn't, —  not  about  anything  like  this." 

"  But  Norah  is  a  very  attractive  girl.  I'm  a 
human  creature,  after  all.  I  might  have  had  an  in- 
fatuation— " 

"  Oh,  Edward !  A  girl  of  that  class, —  and  that 
character, —  and  in  your  own  village,  where  we  know 
the  Vicar!  And  you  your  father's  son!  No,  you 
could  never  —  you  know  you  couldn't. —  I  won't 
think  of  such  a  dreadful  thing." 

"  But  if  it  had  only  been  my  running  away  with 
her  that  made  her  character  bad,  I  shouldn't  have 
been  the  one  to  criticise  her.  That's  obvious.  And 
knowing  Vicars  doesn't  stop  Infatuations." 


The  Buffoon  351 

"Such  a  dreadful  affair!  I  told  Mrs.  Hew- 
son— " 

"Well,  is  any  one  suspected?  Is  there  ground 
for  suspicion  of  any  particular  person?  " 

"  Mrs.  Hewson  spoke  of  one  of  the  girl's  father's 
men,  who  had  lately  been  dismissed."  Aunt  Amelia 
was  again  informative. 

"I  don't  believe  it!  I  know  the  fellow  she 
means." 

Mrs.  Raynes  reverted  to  expatiations  on  the 
Vicarage  point  of  view,  the  suffering  and  shame  of 
Norah's  parents,  the  unpardonableness  of  Norah. 
"  She'll  find  out  soon  enough,"  she  said  with  pious 
malignity,  "  what  it  means  to  be  so  wicked.  Well, 
she'll  be  a  warning  to  others."  Edward  again  in- 
sisted that  Norah's  future  depended  almost  entirely 
on  the  man  who  had  taken  her,  but  this  standpoint 
was  evidently  so  foreign  and  perverse  to  his  mother 
that  he  abandoned  enlargement  upon  it.  "  She  must 
end  badly,  of  course  she  must,"  Mrs.  Raynes  re- 
peated. 

"  Well,  Mother,  let's  hope  he'll  treat  her  abom- 
inably,   so   that   you   may   be   satisfied."     Edward 
left  it  at  that,  and  his  mother  observed  that  the  man, 
whoever  he  was,  must  be  a  scoundrel. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

THE  depressing  influence  of  his  mother's 
menage  attended  Edward.  After  dinner  he 
very  soon  and  rather  precipitately  escaped 
from  the  drawing-room  on  the  plea  that  he  was  tired 
and  should  go  to  bed  early.  He  felt  he  could  not 
bear  to  wait  for  the  moment  when  Aunt  Amelia 
would  tactfully  withdraw  so  as  to  leave  him  to  his 
mother.  "  And  now  we  are  alone  together,"  he 
could  hear  his  mother's  subdued,  voracious  tone; 
"  now  we  are  alone,  I  know  you  will  tell  me  all  about 
it."  And  she  would  have  looked  expectantly  up, 
with  that  "  happy  in  your  happiness  "  expression  that 
he  loathed.  She  might  have  added:  "  But  I  do  so 
wish  —  I  think,  Edward  dear,  you  might  have  told 
me  first, —  when  we  were  by  ourselves."  He  could 
not  stomach  that  kind  of  thing  to-night,  so  he  es- 
caped, leaving  Mrs.  Raynes  on  the  verge  of  tears, 
so  bitterly  had  he  cheated  her  expectant  emotions. 
They  were  on  tiptoe  about  his  private  door,  these 
emotions,  with  upraised,  thin,  pathetic  hands,  suitably 
tremulous;  he  could  see  them,  petty  eavesdroppers, 
attenuated  by  female  hypocrisies  about  themselves 
and  everything  else. 

"  They  are  not  decent,"  Edward  repeated  to  him- 
352 


The  Buffoon  353 

self,  as  he  sat  on  his  bed,  "  women  are  not  decent. 
And  I'm  damned,"  he  went  on,  "  if  I  take  Eunice 
and  expose  her  to  my  mother."  His  mother  would 
be  antagonistic  to  her,  of  course;  was  already  an- 
tangonistic, —  easy  to  tell  that  from  her  eyes.— 
That  derogatory  tendency  of  all  women  towards  the 
conquerors  of  their  sons  !  And  how  they  redreamed 
their  own  animalisms  on  the  occasions  that  these  en- 
counters with  daughters-in-law  provided,  being  drawn 
all  the  time  in  another  direction  by  malicious  delight 
that  their  male  should  be  gratified  at  the  expense  of 
another  woman !  Was  it,  Edward  wondered,  be- 
cause of  this  intrusion  of  malice  that  he  resented  the 
animahsm?  He  thought  not,  he  thought  that  it  was 
because,  in  the  case  contemplated,  the  animalism 
would  be  to  some  extent,  to  a  quite  discreet  and  con- 
ventional extent,  stirred  towards  him.  Yes,  the  idea 
of  that  legitimized  and  covert  and  sentimentalized 
incestuous  flair  was  what  really  repelled. 

Edward  realised,  too,  that  every  emotion  of  his 
mother's,  every  loolc  or  remark  or  movement  of  hers 
that  revealed  or  failed  to  reveal,  or  disguised  or 
failed  to  disguise  her  emotion,  would  be  damnably 
and  expectedly  in  tone  with  all  those  little  environing 
things  that  he  found  at  that  moment  so  specially  un- 
pardonable. Yes,  in  tone  from  the  first,  and  continu- 
ing to  be  in  tone;  conditioned,  in  fact,  by  every  fa- 
miliar detail  of  his  mother's  existence.  She  would 
bring,  he  felt,  the  whole  weight  of  her  menage  to 
bear  upon  his  relation  to  Eunice,  and  Eunice's  re- 


354  The  Buffoon 


lation  to  him.  Edward  thought  of  the  way  his 
mother  treated  her  servants,  of  that  constant  pro- 
trusion of  the  conventional  kindness  of  mistress  to 
maid,  of  that  constant  undercurrent  of  femininity  in 
self-assertion  on  either  side,  in  the  determination  on 
either  side  not  to  be  "  put  upon."  They  sparred  to- 
gether, his  mother  and  her  girls,  they  were  always 
sparring;  yet  always  under  the  shadow  of  the  con- 
vention of  the  devoted  servant  and  the  considerate 
lady  of  the  house.  His  mother  established  that  con- 
vention at  once,  she  broke  each  new  maid  into  it: 
it  was  extraordinary  how  readily  these  female  crea- 
tures all  lent  themselves  to  being  broken  in,  that 
way. 

Then  there  were  the  callers,  the  people  who  came 
to  tea,  the  people  who  sometimes  dropped  in  in  the 
morning.  When  Edward  thought  of  his  mother  and 
her  menage  he  thought  of  them.  They  came  into  it 
all,  they  played  their  part;  they  exercised  the  conven- 
tions; his  mother  dealt  with  them,  and  they  dealt 
with  her,  exactly  according  to  expectation  based  on 
everything  else  that  his  mother  and  they  were  known 
to  do.  They  were  all  flying,  at  every  point  in  their 
progress,  under  the  same  false  colours,  with  the  same 
ends  proper  to  folly  and  vanity  in  view,  and  the 
same  circuitous  accepted  methods  of  getting  to  them. 
He  recalled  an  observation  of  Welsh's.  So  different 
a  person  as  a  drunken  old  Colonel  of  his  Cambridge 
acquaintance  had  made  it,  too.  "  But,  my  dear  boy, 
have  you  ever  heard  them," —  the  liquorish  blue  eye 


The  Buffoon  355 


had  rolled, — "  have  you  ever  heard  them  talking  — 
talking  together?     My  Lord !  " 

How  tiresome,  to  say  the  least,  that  all  this  should 
go  on,  that  it  should  flow  round  and  about,  and  that 
one's  feet  must  be  sopped  in  it!  Edward  had  a  hor- 
rible sense  of  the  inevitable  mimicry  in  life:  the  con- 
sciousness that  there  were  all  over  the  world  millions 
upon  millions  of  other  menages  exactly  like  his 
mother's  oppressed  him,  weighted  him  down.  He 
passionately  demanded  revolution,  at  whatever  cost. 

But  he  demanded  Eunice  with  equal  passion.  She 
might  "  let  him  in  for  "  dozens  and  scores  of  things 
that  he  recognised  with  ruthless  certitude  as  detest- 
able, but  still  he  demanded  her.  However,  he 
might  as  well,  it  seemed,  recognise  that  she  was  quite 
as  feminine  as  his  mother,  that  sex  made  them  in- 
alienably alike.  Yes,  his  mother  reminded  him  of 
Eunice,  she  had  a  great  deal  that  was  essential  in 
Eunice's  ways,  he  saw  in  her  Eunice's  turns  and  tricks, 
all  tragically  aged  and  bent  and  creaking.  For  Mrs. 
Raynes  had  in  full  measure  that  curious  inability, 
partly  wilful,  partly  instinctive,  of  women  to  recog- 
nise their  own  age;  she  went  on  seeing  herself  as  a 
girl,  as  a  romantic  figure,  delicate  and  interesting; 
she  had  her  anticipated  touches  of  coquetry  with 
never  a  thought  that  they  were  misplaced.  And, 
most  of  all  like  Eunice,  she  went  full  canter  for  sex 
appeal  when  her  inteUigence  failed ;  bluffed  with  just 
that  same  professional  address  in  evocation  of  touch- 
ing irrelevancies,  when  she  didn't  understand. 


356  The  Buffoon 

It  seemed  to  Edward  that  he  was  positively 
haunted  by  Woman :  her  sex  had  never  presented  it- 
self to  him  as  so  opaque  a  thing.  He  could  have  re- 
bounded to  the  cloister  or  the  brothel  or  anywhere 
else  sufficiently  remote  from  the  hearth.  But  yet  he 
knew  he  could  not,  he  knew  that  in  either  cloister  or 
brothel  he  would  be  starved  and  unhappy.  He 
could  understand  well  enough  Jack  Welsh's  point  of 
view  of  Ethelle  and  her  kind  as  being  drained  of  sex, 
converted  to  animals  neither  male  nor  female ;  but 
how  was  he  helped  by  that  when  he  had  no  taste  for 
that  kind  of  a  creature?  There  was  no  bait  for  him 
there.  No,  the  only  thing  he  could  do  was  to  try  to 
take  what  was  his  bait  while  escaping  the  closed 
jaws  of  the  trap. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

EDWARD  slipped  out  of  the  house  next  morn- 
ing after  breakfast  and  walked  by  the  beach. 
The  day  was  sunny  and  fresh;  very  soon  he 
began  to  feel  buoyant,  reinvigorated.  Memories  of 
old  buffooneries  came  to  him,  memories  of  Cam- 
bridge and  skylarkings:  he  was  struck  by  the  sense 
of  Cambridge  that  the  word  "  skylarking  "  conveyed, 
a  word  so  emphatically  light-blue  as  that !  If  Oliver 
Cromwell  had  been  at  Oxford,  he  would  never  have 
snatched  his  son-in-law's  wig,  made  as  though  to 
throw  it  in  the  fire  and  then  sat  upon  it;  or  strewed 
with  sticky  comfits  the  seats  where  the  ladies  were 
to  sit  at  his  daughter's  wedding.  Edward  was  filled 
with  a  desire  to  do  something  absurd,  and  at  the  same 
time  annoyed  by  the  reflection  that  he  would  not 
have  thought  about  it  but  simply  have  done  It,  ten 
or  fifteen  years  ago.  There  would  have  been  no 
reminiscence  of  Oliver  Cromwell  then.  It  occurred 
to  him  that  he  might  send  fantastic  telegrams  to 
Eunice,  but  what  would  be  the  point  of  that  if  he 
realised  them  as  fantastic?  And  he  knew  exactly 
how  she  would  allude  to  them  when  they  met.  She 
would  caress  his  forehead,  gently  and  timidly,  and 
murmur:     "Great  boy  that  you  are!"     He  was 

357 


358  The  Buffoon 

horribly  sure  that  this  was  what  she  would  do,  and 
he  was  glad  that  he  had  not  been  able  to  telegraph 
the  night  before :  "  We  must  never  keep  house,"  or 
"  Forget  everything  you  have  ever  read  about  being 
maternal." 

Breakfast  with  his  mother  and  aunt  had  been  quite 
as  trying  as  he  had  expected.  He  had  been  fretted 
all  the  while  between  Mrs.  Raynes's  disinclination  to 
permit  the  starting  of  any  topic  of  abstract  interest, 
and  Aunt  Amelia's  consciously  eager  willingness  to 
talk  in  a  thoroughly  modern  and  intelligent  way 
about  anything  that  might  come  up.  When  he  had 
asked  his  mother:  "What  do  you  think  of  mar- 
riage? "  she  had  fluttered  her  eyelids  and  trembled 
in  romantic  embarrassment  on  her  "  My  dear  boy, — 
think  —  think  —  of  marriage?"  the  question  being 
obviously  as  strange  and  incomprehensible  to  her  as 
an  inquiry  concerning  her  opinion  on  the  shape  of  the 
earth:  for  the  orange-shaped  earth  was  there  for 
her,  as  marriage  was,  a  fact  and  not  a  subject  for  dis- 
cussion. But  Aunt  Amelia,  when  she  heard  mar- 
riage mentioned,  shot  out  at  once  to  take  up  her  posi- 
tion on  the  little  neat  mound  of  her  point  of  view. 
Marriage,  to  her,  was  allied  with  the  Women's  Prop- 
erty Act,  with  Majority  and  Minority  Reports,  with 
arguments  for  sex  equality  and  the  extension  of  the 
grounds  of  divorce,  with  American  experiments,  with 
problems  concerning  the  children,  with  the  opinions 
of  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw  and  Mr.  H.  G.  Wells,  with 
commonsense  compromises  and  the  attitude  of  the 


The  Buffoon  359 


Non-MIIitant  Women's  Franchise  League,  with  mod- 
ern methods  for  education  of  girls. 

"  After  all,"  she  had  said  cheerfully,  "  it  is  only 
the  fools  that  marriage  hits  hard,  as  a  rule.  We 
must  teach  our  girls.  Of  course  the  marriage  laws 
aren't  all  they  should  be.  I  would  certainly  allow 
divorce  for  insanity  or  serious  crime, —  but  to  allow 
it  on  mutual  consent!  We  should  get  into  a  worse 
tangle  than  ever.  And  some  would  allow  it  at  the 
will  of  one  only  of  the  parties!  Just  imagine  what 
dreadful  confusion." 

Edward  felt  profoundly  dissatisfied  with  Aunt 
Amelia  as  he  walked  by  the  beach.  He  began  to 
regard  her  and  his  mother  as  counterirritants. 
What  application  for  his  profit  could  the  one  make 
more  than  the  other?  This  talk  of  marriage  laws  I 
As  if  laws  made  any  difference !  Laws  couldn't 
change  the  personal  relations  of  women  to  men,  how- 
ever closely  or  loosely  they  might  bind  married 
couples  together.  No,  his  matter  was  much  further 
down  than  all  that  came  to,  he  was  concerned  with 
the  inherent  incompatibility  of  males  and  females 
as  such,  an  incompatibility  of  extreme  importance  in 
face  of  the  imperious  need  that  would  keep  bringing 
the  sexes  together. 

He  reflected  upon  Aunt  Amelia's  appeal  to  edu- 
cation, the  appeal  of  the  age,  an  appeal  made  al- 
ways by  imperfectly  educated  people.  He,  too,  had 
thought  of  education.  Perhaps  in  the  long  run  it 
might  be  possible  to  educate  women  out  of  their 


360  The  Buffoon 

mania  for  creating  and  cultivating  the  horrors  of 
domestic  and  social  life.  But  Edward,  especially 
at  that  moment,  lived  for  his  own  near  future,  not 
for  the  future  of  other  people  far  ahead.  Nor  had 
he  ever  inclined  towards  membership  of  that  labour- 
ing band,  striving,  so  we  are  told,  with  eyes  fixed 
on  the  front  of  morn,  raised  to  heights  above  the 
hills;  eager  to  shed  blood  that  may  beat  in  the  hearts 
of  posterity.  Edward  had  always  felt  that  it  was 
the  egoists  and  individualists  who  were  of  most  use 
to  future  generations,  that  posterity  was  as  a  rule 
merely  inconvenienced  by  the  uncomfortable  efforts 
of  its  grandfather  saviours.  He  objected  to  the 
creation  of  this  atmosphere  of  self-denial  as  strongly 
as  he  objected  to  Christianity,  and  he  was  sure  that 
the  existence  of  the  tradition  involved  would  be 
found  insufferable  by  any  posterity  that  was  not  in- 
sufferable itself.  However,  Aunt  Amelia  and  her 
kind,  with  their  professions  that  sowing  for  others 
to  reap  was  the  most  engaging  occupation  In  the 
world,  were  not  themselves  prone  to  any  form  of 
self-denial:  they  talked  and  acted  as  they  did  for 
simple  flattery  of  self-esteem,  and  because  they  were 
at  the  same  time  energetic  and  unemployed.  So 
they  were  tiresome  and  insincere,  and,  confound  it, 
there  seemed  to  be  more  of  them  every  day,  all  say- 
ing the  same  things  and  saying  them  with  even  the 
same  intonation. 

Edward  himself  had  had  casual  acquaintance  with 
the  itch  of  his  period;  he  had  been  lightly  impressed 


The  Buffoon  361 

by  the  imbecilities  of  social  arrangements,  lightly 
occupied  with  ideas  of  reform.  But  he  had  consist- 
ently used  his  social  impressions  for  his  amusement. 
What  had  he  to  do  with  public  affairs  ? 

So  now  he  dismissed  impatiently  theories  of  mar- 
riage and  education,  he  began  to  think  once  more  of 
what  he  should  do  under  pressure  of  circumstances 
seen  and  felt,  of  how  he  could  keep  Eunice  without 
being  stifled  by  her  sex  and  all  its  inevitable  appa- 
nages. He  felt  absolute  confidence  in  his  own  power 
to  deal  with  whatever  clumsy  obstacles  the  law  might 
put  in  his  way:  the  law  did  not  give  him  a  moment's 
uneasiness;  he  would  have  married  under  strictest 
Catholic  obligation  without  a  qualm.  What  he  did 
apprehend  was  the  peculiar  slave-power  of  women, 
the  power  that  worked  in  the  twilight  and  under 
cover  of  ambuscades. 

Edward's  attention  was  drawn  to  a  shouting  group 
of  children,  a  girl  of  about  twelve,  a  couple  of  little 
boys,  and  an  older  boy  of  fifteen  or  sixteen.  The 
little  girl  was  evidently  provoking  the  youth  to  take 
her  in  his  arms.  She  displayed  every  symptom  of 
childish  coquetry,  she  jumped  and  darted  about  round 
the  boy,  laughing  and  panting  and  crying  out,  evad- 
ing while  wishing  to  be  caught.  At  length  she  was 
caught,  she  was  lifted  up  and  clutched,  and  imme- 
diately she  screamed  and  kicked.  Edward  had  been 
sure  that  she  would  do  that,  he  had  watched  her, 
fascinated  by  the  sense  of  what  must  inevitably  hap- 
pen, and  when  it  did  happen  he  was  filled  with  a  sick- 


362  The  Buffoon 

ening  disgust.  It  was  exactly  how  this  same  child 
would  behave  in  four  or  five  years'  time  so  far  as 
the  essence  of  the  thing  went.  She  would  provoke, 
and  when  her  provocation  had  succeeded,  she  would 
react  in  this  same  way.  Not  because  she  would  be 
too  strongly  sexed :  no,  the  salvation  of  women  would 
lie  in  the  strengthening  of  sex  emotion  in  them,  in  a 
strengthening  by  concentration  that  would  leave  it 
clear  and  direct  and  cleanly  cut,  and  give  it  the  energy 
to  expend  itself  with  a  decent  and  economical  des- 
patch. But  education!  What  would  education  do 
for  that  child?  What  essential  point  would  educa- 
tion touch? 

It  might  be,  Edward  reflected,  as  the  girl's  screams 
subsided  with  her  release,  that  most  men  liked  this 
thin  ubiquitous  sex  smearing  of  their  women,  that 
they  had  in  fact  demanded  and  so  created  it,  as  fod- 
der for  their  own  wispier  sentiments,  as  a  cheap 
facile  gratification  for  their  superficial  sense  of  con- 
trasts. Well,  if  so,  they  paid;  they  had  to  sufi^er 
nuisance  after  nuisance  till  the  end  of  the  chapter. 
Edward  felt  a  sudden  grateful  appreciation  of  Betty, 
and  then  thought  that  perhaps  after  all  it  was  simply 
that  Betty  knew  how  to  fool  him.  But  he  felt  sure 
that  she  at  twelve  years  old  would  not  have  screamed 
like  that.  Yes,  girls  like  Betty  gave  much  less  trou- 
ble. When  he  was  with  her,  sex  never,  as  now, 
Altered  through  to  mess  up  his  consciousness.  How 
unfortunate,  that  other  reaction  of  the  Liverpool 
night!     It  was  puzzling  and  irritating  that  Betty 


rhe  Buffoon  363 

should  no  longer  content  him,  that  he  should  want 
Eunice  so  much  more.  Would  Eunice  have 
screamed?  Again  he  felt  impelled  to  telegraph  in 
inquiry,  but  she  would  not  understand.  He  was 
almost  sure,  too,  that  though  she  might  not  have 
screamed  she  would  have  done  something  equivalent. 
He  flushed  with  agitation.  "  Marriage,"  he  said 
to  himself;  "  marriage  —  Eunice."  But  he  did  not 
say  it  in  a  questioning  tone.  The  forces  driving  him 
to  marriage  with  Eunice  became  hourly  stronger  and 
surer:  that  union  seemed  inexplicably  inevitable. 

The  children  had  now  scrambled  into  a  boat,  and 
the  older  boy,  having  taken  off  his  shoes  and  stock- 
ings and  rolled  up  his  trousers,  began  pushing  the 
boat  out.  In  a  few  moments  he  was  standing  nearly 
thigh-deep  in  the  water,  he  released  his  hold,  keep- 
ing his  fingers  on  the  rowlock.  The  girl  at  once 
screamed  again,  she  leaned  forward  and  grasped  the 
youth  convulsively  round  the  neck.  "All  right!" 
he  cried,  "  hold  on  if  you  like."  She  wriggled  and 
gasped,  then  suddenly  disengaged  herself  with  a  fran- 
tic push  which  sent  the  boat  drifting  away.  She  re- 
peated the  scream,  notifying  her  success  in  having 
established  a  romantic  situation.  "  Silly  little  fool !  " 
the  boy  shouted.  "  I'm  not  going  to  get  wet,  any- 
how." He  calmly  turned,  walked  out  of  the  water, 
and  sat  down  on  the  beach  to  watch  them.  Edward 
wanted  to  give  him  a  shilling.  "  Good  boy,"  he  said 
to  himself,  "  I  hope  you'll  say  just  that  in  a  few  years' 
time,  and  keep  on  saying  it. —     If  only  we  could 


364  The  Buffoon 

destroy  chivalry!     Perhaps  that  is  the  real  remedy." 

The  boat  continued  to  drift,  and  the  girl,  now 
really  alarmed,  took  an  oar.  She  made  an  agitated 
and  futile  display  with  it;  she  splashed  herself,  she 
splashed  the  little  boys,  who  sat  sedately,  regarding 
her  with  wondering  eyes;  she  struck  herself  sharply 
across  the  knuckles,  and  howled.  Then,  turning 
with  a  tear-stained  grimace  she  shrieked:  "Oh, 
Percy !  do  come  and  help !  " 

Percy  called  her  a  fool  again.  "  Put  both  oars 
in,"  he  shouted,  "  and  pull  them  at  the  same  time. 
You  know  how  to." 

At  last,  after  innumerable  repeated  directions  on 
his  part,  innumerable  misunderstandings  and  inepti- 
tudes on  hers,  the  boat  was  brought  to  shore.  The 
girl  alighted  with  much  show  of  dependence  upon 
her  Percy's  assistance,  got  both  feet  wet  in  sacrifice 
to  pathos,  and  sat  down  on  the  sand,  panting,  silent, 
and  apparently  subdued.  The  youth  sat  a  few  yards 
from  her,  whistling  as  he  dried  his  feet  and  put  on 
his  stockings.  The  two  little  boys  ran  off  to  a  bath- 
ing-machine without  sign  that  they  had  at  all  noted 
the  incident. 

Edward  lit  a  cigarette  and  walked  away.  It  sur- 
prised him  that  the  more  he  thought  of  questions  of 
sex,  of  characteristics  of  sex,  however  perplexedly 
and  discontentedly  and  apprehensively,  the  more 
strongly  he  was  drawn,  with  a  desire  that  really  was 
sick,  towards  Eunice. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

EDWARD  left  Westbeach  that  same  evening. 
"  Poor  boy,"  his  mother  had  said,  "  you 
are  a  little  upset, —  restless, —  a  little 
strange.  It  is  all  so  new  to  you.  I  hope  —  I  do 
hope —  And  when  will  you  bring  her?  "  she  had 
asked  him. 

Edward  hesitated;  then,  "Oh,  I  will  write.  I 
must  see  her  first,"  he  replied.  It  was  easier  to  re- 
ply in  that  way,  so  that  no  familiar  fountains  should 
be  unsealed. 

His  mother  saw  him  off;  she  talked  a  great  deal, 
and  she  talked  hastily,  as  though  any  silence  might 
give  cover  to  unseemly  thoughts  or  observations. 
Edward  was  preoccupied,  he  hardly  spoke.  "  My 
luggage?"  he  said,  looking  round  as  he  got  into 
the  train.  "  Ah,  yes,  I  have  no  luggage."  "  My 
wife  —  I  have  no  wife."  The  quotation  came  to 
him.  "  Well,"  he  went  on,  taking  his  mother's  hand 
and  kissing  her  cheek,  "  good-bye.  You  mustn't 
wait.  No,  please  don't  wait. —  Oh,  yes,  I  meant 
to  have  told  you.  You  were  speaking  of  giving  me 
more  of  your  money  on  my  marriage.  You  mustn't 
do  that.  It  isn't  at  all  necessary.  Eunice  has 
money  of  her  own.     A  fair  amount,  I  believe." 

36s 


366  The  Buffoon 

"  Oh."  Mrs.  Raynes  was  evidently  very  well 
pleased.  "  That  Is  nice.  Of  course  it  makes  no 
real  difference,  and  I  know  you  think  nothing  about 
it,  but  .  .  .  oh,  and  I  do  so  like  your  not  having 
told  me  till  now !     That  is  so  like  you !  " 

"  Why?  It  was  only  that  I  didn't  happen  to  think 
of  it." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  broke  in  delightedly,  "  that  is 
just  what  I  mean!  You  didn't  think  of  it!  Of 
course,  dear,  you  wouldn't  — " 

"  Yes,  but  I  have  thought  of  it.  It  was  only  that 
I  didn't  happen  to  think  of  it  when  I  was  talking  to 
you.  Of  course  it  makes  some  difference,  Eunice 
having  money  of  her  own.  Money  makes  a  differ- 
ence in  marriage  as  in  everything  else.  But  for  me 
it  isn't  the  main  point." 

"  No, —  no."  Mrs.  Raynes  dashed  at  the  open- 
ing.    "  Of  coursed 

"  Simply  because  I  am  pretty  well  off  myself.  We 
should  have  enough  if  she  hadn't  a  penny. —  That's 
all." 

Edward's  mother  caressed  his  hand,  and  was  os- 
tentatiously silent.  Her  satisfaction  in  her  son's 
money  had  never  failed  her.  She  continued  to  think 
of  his  financial  credit  as  a  moral  credit,  and  the  pros- 
pect of  its  enhancement  was,  more  than  anything  else 
could  be,  delightful.  Yet  no  one  bristled  more 
freely  with  delicacies  concerning  money  than  she : 
to  talk  of  money  openly,  without  circumlocution,  was 
to  her  quite  as  indecent  as  to  talk  in  the  same  way  of 


The  Buffoon  367 

unborn  babes.  Oblique  and  cautious  allusions,  un- 
derstanding smiles  and  hints,  were  permissible  in 
the  one  case  and  the  other,  and  nice  people  knew,  of 
course,  just  where  to  draw  the  line.  Mrs.  Raynes 
was  intensely  curious  about  the  extent  of  Eunice's 
fortune,  but  she  could  not  possibly  put  any  question 
to  such  a  point  as  that,  and  besides,  as  she  reflected, 
as  Edward  could  feel  her  reflecting,  her  dear  un- 
worldly boy  would  be  sure  not  to  know,  not  to  have 
inquired;  he  would  have  deprecated,  with  his  native 
delicacy,  any  tentative  information.  Still, — "  a  fair 
amount" — he  had  said  "a  fair  amount."  After 
a  pause  she  threw  out  a  line. 

"  It  is  very  nice,  Edward,"  she  said,  "  I  think  it 
Is  very  nice  for  a  wife  to  have  just  enough  not  to  — 
not,  you  know,  to  have  to  run  to  her  husband  for 
everything." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  replied  indifferently,  tak- 
ing her  remark  as  though  It  were  of  general  appli- 
cation.    "  She  can  always  have  an  allowance." 

"  Yes,  but  It's  rather  better  for  her  not  to  be  quite 
dependent.   .   .  ." 

"  I  suppose  Aunt  Amelia  has  been  talking  to  you," 
said  Edward.  "  Well,  they're  waving  the  flag. 
Good-bye.     I'll  write." 

She  pressed  his  hand  with  maternal  significance, 
and  then  drew  back,  regarding  him  in  a  wistful,  de- 
fenceless way.  There  she  stood  on  the  platform 
till  the  train  turned  a  corner.  Edward  stood  un- 
comfortably In  his  carriage;  he  leaned  against  the 


368  The  Buffoon 

window,  after  ascertaining  that  the  door  was  securely 
closed,  and  fluttered  his  fingers  feebly  at  her.  He 
produced  a  strained  smile.  When  she  was  out  of 
sight  he  sank  upon  the  seat,  exhausted  and  relieved. 
Wondering  why  relations  between  mother  and  son 
should  be  so  painfully  artificial,  he  took  up  the  se- 
rious monthly  review  which  Mrs.  Raynes  had  care- 
fully bought  for  him,  in  tribute  to  his  intellectual 
powers. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

WHEN  Edward  arrived  at  Jermyn  Street 
he  found  two  letters,  one  from  Welsh 
and  one  from  Tryers,  Welsh  began 
by  addressing  him  as  a  queer  son  of  Chaos,  and 
told  him  that  he  now  had  need  of  all  his  meteoric 
bolts.  "  The  fat's  in  the  fire !  "  he  wrote.  "  Reg- 
gie has  disgorged  his  poison.  I  knew  it.  I  know 
that  curved  and  pointed  tongue !  I  know  how  those 
little  snake's  teeth  close  and  bite.  But  you  will  con- 
quer: I  fear  for  you  no  heel  of  Achilles.  May 
Hermes  and  Apollo  speed  you  well !  Act  —  act  at 
once,  you  who  are  always  triumphant  in  action.  We 
wait  your  Caesarean  progress." 

There  was  more.  Welsh  mentioned  Atalanta, 
Icarus,  lago,  Angelo,  Caiaphas  and  others.  But  all 
that  the  letter  conveyed  was  that  Tryers,  with  Mr. 
Reeves's  assistance,  had  told  Eunice  of  Edward's 
amours,  and  that  Edward  must  therefore  give  a 
dashing  and  immediate  counterblow  of  conquest. 
Welsh  had  written  that  morning,  from  O'Flaherty's. 

Tryers'  letter  was  also  of  that  morning.  It  was 
short : 

"  Dear  Raynes:  I  write  to  apologise  to  you  for 
my  action  in  speaking  to  Miss  Dinwiddie  about  your 

369 


370  The  Buffoon 

sexual  tendencies.  I  thought  It  right  to  speak,  but 
have  since  come  to  the  conclusion  that  I  was  not 
justified,  and  therefore  I  ask  you  to  accept  my 
apology.     Yours  sincerely,  R.  H.  Tryers." 

"  What  a  cad !  "  thought  Edward.  He  crumpled 
the  letter  up.  How  incomparably  smug,  this  "  frank 
acknowledgment!"  And  how  stark  in  indecency 
was  that  phrase  from  Tryers'  pen,  "  sexual  tenden- 
cies " !  It  suggested  a  middle-aged  clergyman,  with 
side-whiskers  and  heavy  white  chaps,  peering  round 
corners  on  behalf  of  a  Society. 

Edward  wrote  in  reply:  "I  have  a  distaste  for 
indecent  people;  so  don't  write  to  me  or  see  me 
again. —     Edward  Raynes." 

There :  he  had  put  Tryers  out  of  the  way,  at  any 
rate.  Having  dismissed  him,  he  experienced  a  de- 
sire to  shock  and  tease  and  torment  Eunice. 


CHAPTER  XL 

EDWARD  woke  early  the  next  morning,  in 
immediate  exuberant  spirits.  The  sun  was 
bright  in  his  room,  an  enthusiastic  sun,  the 
most  enthusiastic,  Edward  felt,  that  the  world  had 
to  show  him.  He  got  out  of  bed  at  once.  He  was 
very  much  interested,  more  interested  than  he  had 
been  for  months,  and  his  face  in  the  mirror  was 
astonishingly  young.  It  gave  him  pleasure  to  re- 
flect that  when  he  had  shaved  he  would  look  younger 
still.  Yes, —  not  a  grey  hair,  no  thinning  at  the 
temples  or  on  the  crown  of  his  head,  and  nothing 
worse  than  unobtrusive  wrinkles.  Still,  ten  years, 
five  years  ago,  he  would  not  have  noticed  that,  would 
not  have  looked  out.  "What  matter?"  he  mur- 
mured, and  went  to  fill  his  bath. 

Evidently  new  emotional  experiences  were  good 
for  him,  they  renewed  the  senses  of  his  youth.  This 
impact  of  Eunice  was  rejuvenating:  he  liked  her  for 
that.  Since  he  had  seen  her,  he  had  been  interested 
all  the  time,  interested  though  uncomfortable.  Now 
the  interest  remained,  the  discomfort  had  worn  off. 
Admirable !  Edward  plunged  his  head  under  the 
water,  then  plunged  his  body  again,  emerged  with 
great  rapidity,  began  drying  himself  vehemently  with 

371 


372  The  Buffoon 


an  enveloping  rough  towel.  "  I  must  live,"  he  said 
aloud.  "  I  must  go  on  living.  And  she's  the  fresh 
earth  for  me  to  plant  in,  she's  the  sap  of  my  tree !  " 
He  entertained  himself  by  foreseeing  in  Eunice  an 
endless  variety  of  experience;  he  predicted  the 
growth  of  Infinite  fresh  shoots  and  grafts,  foreseen 
and  unforeseen.  So  Tryers  thought  he  could  bar  his 
way.  Good  God,  Tryers !  That  twisted  white 
worm. 

In  his  shirt-sleeves  he  wrote  a  telegram  to  Eunice, 
asking  her  to  meet  him  in  Kensington  Gardens  at 
noon,  naming  the  spot.  He  did  not  wish  to  see  her 
again  at  that  house  of  her  cousins,  in  that  made-up 
room.  The  telegram  was  sent  out,  Edward  break- 
fasted, and  then  walked  across  the  Park  to  the  Na- 
tional Gallery.  It  was  still  early,  he  had  plenty  of 
time  to  look  at  those  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  cen- 
tury Italian  pictures.  He  would  enjoy  those  Ma- 
donnas with  their  fastidious  hands  and  enigmatical 
almond  eyes,  their  look  of  emaciated  yet  not  hag- 
gard corruptness.  "  Ah,"  he  thought  when  he  got 
to  them,  "  that  was  the  time.  The  time  before  Raph- 
ael bounced  in,  with  everything  just  in  the  right 
proportion,  with  his  '  curves  of  perfect  beauty,'  his 
'  grave  full  wonderful  faces,'  his  compendium  of 
artistic  qualities  that  it  does  us  all  so  much  good  to 
admire."  Edward  was  having  a  good  morning,  he 
had  relished  his  breakfast,  the  sun  was  still  bright, 
and,  to  his  particular  mood,  to  his  excellent  health 
^nd  excellent  spirits,  the  art  of  lean  religious  devo- 


The  Buffoon  373 

tion  had  a  piquant  appeal.  "  Siena  would  suit  me 
now,"  he  reflected.  "  Sano  di  Pietro, —  the  Loren- 
zettis.  I  would  go  from  church  to  church:  how  I 
should  enjoy  those  Crucifixions  and  Massacres  of 
the  Innocents!  Of  course  they  should  turn  those 
early  Italian  rooms  into  churches.  Why  has  nobody 
thought  of  that?  " 

His  attention  was  attracted  by  a  couple  of  negroes, 
a  man  and  a  woman.  They  were  wandering  about 
on  the  other  side  of  the  room,  looking  grotesquely 
out  of  place.  Both  were  dressed  prosperously. 
The  man  carried  a  brown  bowler  hat  in  his  hand,  and 
wore  a  neat,  well-brushed,  light  brown  suit;  the 
woman  had  on  a  bright  yellow  gown  of  light  material 
and  a  yellow  hat  with  a  high  green  feather.  Ed- 
ward took  them  in,  as  dressed  up  to  be  amusing.  He 
was  pleased  with  them.  Their  thick-lipped  open 
mouths,  their  radiant  teeth,  their  wide  barbaric  nos- 
trils, their  pose  of  extreme  gravity  and  self-impor- 
tance, their  woolly,  black,  cocked-up  heads,  the  gen- 
eral exaggerated  pungency  of  their  appearance,  and 
the  protruding  incongruity  of  that  appearance  in  this 
place,  all  struck  Edward  as  ludicrous  and  fantastic  in 
quite  a  lovely  way.  Now  there  was  something  that 
those  Futurist  fellows  really  might  get.  Edward 
interested  himself  further  in  reflecting  that  tempera- 
mentally he  was  against  all  reform,  against  emanci- 
pation of  the  lower  races,  against  emancipation  of 
women,  against  emancipation  of  the  poor,  against 
the  abolition  of  privilege,  against  the  stamping  out 


374  The  Buffoon 

of  the  drink  evil  and  all  other  evils ;  against,  in  fact, 
democracy  and  everything  that  was  supposed  to  go 
with  democracy;  while  intellectually  he  was  con- 
verted at  all  points  to  the  extreme  progressive  creed. 
He  left  the  National  Gallery  in  better  spirits  than 
ever,  in  the  lightest,  most  gaily  Sadistic  mood  imagi- 
nable, entirely  ripe,  he  felt,  for  a  delicate  tormenting 
of  Eunice's  fragile  spirit. 

After  about  half  an  hour  in  the  Gardens  he  saw 
her  coming  towards  him,  slim  as  ever,  with  those 
same  long  curves,  that  same  droop  of  the  weighted 
head.  Yes,  she  had  determined  to  look  like  a  flower, 
and  she  had  succeeded.  She  chose  her  dresses  most 
happily:  it  was  right  that  she  should  wear  those 
straight,  close  frocks,  all  of  a  piece,  so  consciously 
simple.  She  was  in  pale  green  that  morning,  with 
darker  green  at  the  neck  and  round  about.  Quite 
right;  entirely  right.  She  drew  back  from  him,  she 
moved  one  hand  towards  him,  very  slightly. 
"Well?"  she  said,  gazing.  "Well?"  and  drew 
back  again. 

Edward  touched  her  arm.  "  Come  with  me,"  he 
said.  "  And  we  will  tell  each  other  what  we  really 
mean." 

"  Ah,  but  I  —  I  could  never  do  that.  Could  you 
—  really?" 

"  I  can  tell  you  what  you  mean,  certainly.  You 
mean  to  be  beautiful,  to  make  the  most  of  youjr 
beauty,  to  give  it  the  right  setting.  You  mean  to 
say  the  things  that  will  go  well  with  it,  to  do  the 


The  Buffoon  375 

things  that  will  go  well.  You  mean  to  be  harmo- 
nious as  well  as  lovely.  But  you  are  too  much 
occupied  with  your  intentions,  and  you  are  afraid  of 
failure.  I  am  going  to  change  that.  You  shall  fail. 
I  shall  see  that  you  do  fail;  you  shan't  escape  humilia- 
tion, I  promise  you." 

"  Can  a  flower  fail  because  the  wind  breaks  its 
petals?"  She  flew  to  cover.  Evoking  an  image 
of  something  pathetic  and  lovely  she  tried  to  divert 
him. 

Edward  hesitated  a  moment,  uncertain  whether 
to  take  up  her  tone, —  for  the  game  was  pretty,  and 
easy  to  play, —  or  whether  to  go  on  with  the  sport 
of  his  own  flicking  finger.  Of  course,  if  he  could 
do  what  he  wanted  to,  if  he  could  flick  her  into  pain 
and  change  .  .  .  but  would  that  be  ever  possible? 
She  would  be  thinking  that  he  was  about  a  work  of 
salvation,  as  indeed  he  might  be,  but  he  hated  the 
idea  of  any  such  looming  of  moral  issues.  Could 
she  ever  respond  to  his  intention,  could  she  ever  be 
in  it  as  he  wished  her  to  be  in  it,  could  she  under- 
stand the  essential  importance  of  what  he  was  to 
get  out  of  it,  understand  the  close  interrelation  of 
the  importance  to  him  with  the  importance  to  her? 
He  doubted  horribly  whether  she  would  ever  get  fur- 
ther than  the  very  Victorian  notion  that  he  laboured 
lovingly  to  raise  and  expand  her  spirit,  with  the  end 
in  view  of  beautiful  vague  gains  to  both  of  them, — 
to  her  through  him,  to  him  through  her  wrought 
upon  and  perfected.     He  saw  her  drawing  in  the 


376  The  Bicffoon 

sweets  of  the  idea  of  his  "  building  better  than  he 
knew,"  he  saw  her  playing  prettily  with  tissue  con- 
ceptions of  what  she  had  come  to  be  to  him,  and 
through  him,  and  he  to  her,  through  her.  All  the 
old  satin  assonances!  Whereas  the  truth  was  that 
he  aimed  at  a  sport  of  souls,  a  sport  that  had  to 
be  cruel  as  all  sports  worth  their  name  are,  a  sport 
as  little  as  possible  shadowed  by  motive,  but  coloured 
provocatively  and  ambiguously  with  intimations  of 
all  sorts  of  chance  results.  A  sport  entirely  in  Na- 
ture's line.  .  .  . 

"  Can  you  understand?  "  he  said  aloud.  "  With 
your  half-educated  sophistications?  " 

Edward  looked  at  her  sharply  as  he  spoke.  He 
saw,  with  a  thrill  of  pleasure,  that  he  had  really  hurt 
her.  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Yes,  but  how  far 
would  that  reaction  go  ?  Not  far  enough,  he  feared, 
for  him.  But  that  bowed  head!  Well,  he  would 
wait;  in  the  end,  perhaps —  For  the  present  it 
was  exciting  enough  for  her,  looking  as  she  did,  to 
be  his.  Her  physical  attraction  would  carry  him 
on, 

"  If  you  are  saved," —  he  tried  to  strike  the  wound 
a  little  deeper — "  I  can't  help  that.  How  dreadful 
to  be  '  out  for'  salvation!  I  must  introduce  you," 
he  added  reflectively,  "  to  my  friend  Theocrite 
Molesworth,  You  can  save  him.  Then  you  will  be 
absolved  forever  from  saving  yourself.  Or  rather, 
saving  him  you'll  save  yourself, —  and  all  that.  The 
kind  of  thing  we  heard  so  much  of  the  instant  we 


The  Buffoon  111 

were  out  of  our  nurseries.  I  am  sure  you  are  still 
a  disciple  of  those  Higher  Ministrations." 

Eunice  was  silent :  she  kept  her  face  from  him. 
He  touched  her  hand. 

"Ah!"  She  looked  suddenly  up  with  bright 
eyes.  "  That  wind !  —  The  wind  is  still  so  cold, — 
a  wind  from  a  grey  sea!  "     She  shivered. 

Edward's  hand  still  touched  hers.  Again  he  was 
irresolute,  again  he  asked  himself:  "Shall  I  fol- 
low the  lead?  Shall  I  give  her  what  she  expects?  " 
And  further:  "  Can  she  ever  have,  in  the  long  run, 
anything  but  what  she  expects?  Is  she  instinctive 
enough,  tragic  enough,  for  the  unexpected?"  He 
looked  vaguely  at  her'  and  beyond ;  his  eyes  wandered 
about  those  affable  green  Gardens,  hovered  upon 
playing  children,  chance  solitary  figures,  men  and 
women  in  their  twos  and  threes.  His  thoughts  be- 
gan to  move  rapidly,  circling  round  his  indecision, 
blowing  in  fitful  gusts  against  his  acutely  balanced 
will  that  quivered  like  the  index  of  an  undetermined 
scale,  suspended  out  of  their  grasp,  their  secure  at- 
tack. It  was  Edward's  turn  to  suffer  pain.  More 
and  more  definitely  he  became  afflicted  with  a  sense 
of  the  extreme  importance  of  that  moment:  it  was 
a  moment,  he  felt,  that  more  than  any  others  before 
or  since  must  decide  him  in  relation  to  Eunice.  This 
reflection  made  him  extremely  uncomfortable :  such 
moments  were  agitating,  they  were  ridiculous,  they 
were  melodramatic,  they  w^ere  altogether  insuffer- 
able.    Welsh  might  enjoy  them :  he  did  not.     They 


378  The  Buffoon 

were  not  in  his  line,  and  he  resented  it  strongly  that 
one  of  their  detestable  species  should  be  so  flagrantly 
thrust  upon  him.  Yet  he  could  not  possibly  escape 
the  conclusion  that  if  he  spoke  to  Eunice  in  her  tone, 
he  would  never  marry  her,  and  that  marry  her  he 
most  surely  would,  if,  then  and  there,  he  spoke  ac- 
cording to  himself.  One  of  his  vague  glances  sud- 
denly comprehended  the  amazing  spectacle  of  little 
Norah  walking  in  intimate  company  with  George 
Forrest.  Edward  stared,  transfixed:  he  trembled, 
and  Eunice  trembled  in  response. 

"  The  wind  kisses  the  petals  that  It  breaks,"  Ed- 
ward said  abruptly.  His  gaze  remained  intent  on 
those  others;  he  did  not  hear  her  soft  reluctant 
answer. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

NORAH  and  George  came  inevitably  nearer. 
Edward  was  silent.  At  last  George  saw 
him,  and  crimsoned.  Edward  waved  his 
hand.  Now  Norah's  eyes  met  his;  she  coloured 
faintly,  smiled  faintly,  was  not  unpleasantly  em- 
barrassed.    Edward  raised  his  hat. 

"Your  friends?"  Eunice  murmured.  George 
was  turning  aside. 

"  Good  heavens!  "  exclaimed  Edward,  "  does  he 
want  me  to  shout?  Do  you  mind  — ?  "  he  appealed 
to  Eunice.  "  I  must  intercept  them,  I  really  must. 
It  is  especially  important." 

He  moved,  and  Eunice  with  him,  in  the  direction 
of  the  surprising  pair.  George's  back  was  agitated, 
he  kept  a  pace  unwillingly  slow  by  Norah's  side. 
Norah  was  sauntering  deliberately,  as  Edward  noted 
with  keen  satisfaction.  How  very  much  the  coun- 
try girl  she  was,  in  that  white  loose  dress  with  its 
red  sash!  Evidently  George  had  not  yet  taken  her 
to  a  London  milliner's.  She  had  put  up  her  hair, — 
but  very  recently,  you  could  tell  that.  Such  thick 
long  hair!  coiled  up  with  an  amateur  girlish  art 
that  was  very  appealing.  Little  Norah  —  well  — 
They  were  upon  them. 

379 


380  The  Buffoon 

"  Now,  George,"  Edward  addressed  him  with  a 
catch  of  his  breath,  "  my  dear  George,  my  dear 
Norah, —  why,  we  have  to  run  after  you !  " 

He  shook  hands  with  the  girl,  who  looked  brightly 
at  him,  without  shame,  without  defiance :  they  might 
have  met  thus  on  the  downs  by  her  father's  farm. 
George's  colour  was  still  high:  he  cleared  his  throat, 
and  nodded  a  stiff  recognition. 

"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  George  Forrest,"  remarked  Ed- 
ward, " —  Miss  Dinwiddie.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Forrest 
are  very  near  neighbours  of  mine  in  Sussex, —  very 
old  friends.  Such  a  pity  if  you  hadn't  met, —  if  we 
hadn't  taken  this  opportunity, —  this  charmingly  un- 
expected opportunity.  But  in  London," —  he  looked 
at  Norah, — "  one  is  always  meeting  delightful  peo- 
ple in  London.  And  so  you're  on  a  little  jaunt. 
Well,  well, —  an  admirable  idea." 

"  Yes."  George  had  partly  recovered  himself. 
"London  very  nice  just  now, —  very  pleasant; 
charming  weather.  Yes.  As  you  say,  a  little  jaunt. 
Er  —  we  —  the  fact  is  — " 

"  The  fact  is  that  you  and  Norah  are  going  to 
lunch  with  us.  At  once.  Instanter.  On  the  nail. 
Done. —  Another  engagement.  Nonsense.  Cut 
it.  Nothing  easier.  Of  course  you  will.  What  do 
you  say  to  — " 

Edward  was  as  nearly  as  possible  thrown  off  his 
balance.  Eunice  had  swayed  and  fallen,  fallen 
against  him;  he  found  himself  hopping  absurdly  on 
one  leg,  with  one  arm  clutched  about  her  back.     She 


rhe  Buffoon  381 


was  perfectly  pale,  she  seemed  unconscious.  "  Lady 
Macbeth's  swoon,"  he  was  saying  automatically  to 
himself,  "  was  it  feigned  or  real?  "  Some  examina- 
tion paper  of  his  boyhood  —  But  why  should  this 
have  happened?  He  lowered  the  girl's  body  to  the 
grass,  and  the  echo  of  some  half-forgotten  ribald 
Limerick  rang  in  his  ears:  "  But  they  found  in  the 
grass  —  they   found   in   the   grass — "    how   did   it 


go 


? 


'*  Give  her  air!  "  George  cried  excitedly  and  offi- 
cially, "  give  her  air!  " 

"Air?"  repeated  Edward,  puzzled.  "She  has 
all  the  air  there  is,  surely?  "  Norah  stooped  down 
and  began  unfastening  the  neck  of  Eunice's  dress. 

"  It's  the  sun,"  George  went  on.  "  Water  —  she 
needs  water.  I'll  fetch  some,"  and  he  started  off  in 
Important  haste. 

"  Water,"  Edward  murmured  meditatively,  "  air, 
and  water,  and  sun.     This  Is  all  very  elemental." 

Two  young  men  had  hurried  up  for  participation  in 
the  scene,  and  several  other  people  were  straggling 
behind  them,  lounging  youths  and  nurse-maids,  a 
handful  of  children.  Edward  checked  the  tide. 
"  No,  thank  you,"  he  said.  "  There  is  nothing  to 
be  done,  really.  The  Important  thing  is  not  to  have 
a  crowd.  Please  tell  those  people  to  keep  away. 
Oh,  and  if  you  would  be  so  kind  as  to  call  a  taxi  — 
to  that  near  entrance?  Thank  you  so  much."  To 
Norah  he  said  quickly :  "  Where  are  you  staying?  " 
The  younger  girl,  on  her  knees  by  Eunice,  her  eyes 


382  The  Buffoon 


still  intent  upon  her,  gave,  shyly,  the  name  of  the 
hotel. 

How  was  it,  thought  Edward,  that  he  had  never 
reahsed  Norah?  One  strand  of  her  black  hair  had 
come  loose,  and  was  lying  against  her  browned 
neck.  As  she  stooped  thus,  he  could  guess  at  her 
bare  shoulders,  at  the  lines  of  her  bare  back.  How 
young  she  was,  beyond  all  challenge  !  Amazing  that 
she  should  not  have  struck  him  —  not  really  struck 
him  —  before.  The  half-grown,  friendly,  simple, 
country  Moll  she  used  to  be  !  Now  she  was  —  she 
was  the  swing  of  the  Universe,  she  was  the  poetic 
surge  of  a  thousand  earth-fires,  she  was  something 
that  transcended  individual  desires  and  intents,  she 
forced  him  into  the  great  Life  Mass,  she  smashed 
every  convolution  of  his  personal  brain  by  that  one 
turn  of  her  wrist, —  she  was  this,  she  did  this,  as  she 
knelt  there  over  the  tranced  Eunice. 

Edward  trembled.  He  saw  George  returning 
with  a  child's  pail  in  his  hand.  He  looked  again  at 
Norah,  who  would  not  look  at  him.  One  of  her 
hands  was  on  Eunice's  forehead,  another  on  her 
wrist.  What  young  arms  she  had,  how  vigorous 
with  blood  like  the  sap  of  a  young  tree,  he  knew  it! 
She  was  a  heifer,  a  young  colt;  she  was  like  earth 
freshly  turned,  just  warmed  by  the  sun,  so  as  to  be 
both  moist  and  warm,  so  as  to  partake  of  earth  and 
sun.  She  was  immortality  for  him,  the  only  im- 
mortality he  could  have.  And  that  peculiar  laziness 
that  she  implied !     The  laziness  of  all  natural  things, 


The  Buffoon  383 

things  that  have  vitality  without  activity, —  so  much 
vitality  that  no  room  for  activity  is  left, —  vitality 
that  is  there  In  all  abundance,  Is  there  and  stops 
there,  and  so  creates  most  surely.  And  her 
breast  —  her  breast  like  Eve's  .  .  .  earth  freshly 
turned.   .   .   . 

George  was  nearer.  .  .  .  Eunice  seemed  to  stir. 
Was  her  colour  coming  faintly  back?  Edward 
thought  so.  He  knelt  down  by  Norah.  "  I  want 
you,"  he  whispered,  In  an  agony  of  determination. 
"  You  understand.  Come  to  me  whenever  you  can, 
as  soon  as  you  can."  He  slipped  a  card  into  the 
hand  that  rested  on  Eunice's  pallid  brow.  The  girl's 
fingers  closed  tightly;  she  did  not  speak,  she  did  not 
look  up.  "  Here  It  Is!  "  George  cried,  breathless, 
and  Edward,  looking  at  him,  was  immediately  con- 
vinced of  the  gross  caddishness,  In  the  general  view, 
of  his  own  conduct.  The  conviction  was  bowled  full 
and  clear  at  his  Intelligence,  shot  automatically,  as 
It  were,  from  the  unconscious  hand  of  dear  good 
George.  Edward  felt  that  he  had  never  before  en- 
tered Into  the  unexceptionable  morality  of  his  friend. 
The  fact  of  George's  having  yielded  to  Norah's  Im- 
perious attraction  threw  his  native  morality  into  the 
highest  relief.  Edward  was  sure  that  morality  had 
never  been  so  omnipresent  to  George  as  since  his  se- 
duction. George  had  mobilised  his  morals;  yes,  he 
had  called  out  every  possible  reserve,  and  In  very 
happy  time,  considering  what  he  would  have  to  deal 
with. 


384  The  Buffoon 

George  put  his  hand  into  the  pail,  bent  over,  and 
splashed  Eunice's  forehead.  She  turned  her  head, 
moaned,  opened  her  eyes,  shut  them  again.  Ed- 
ward turned  away  and  regarded  George's  trousers. 
The  set  of  those  trousers,  the  way  in  which  they  ar- 
ticulated the  fact  of  their  appropriation,  was  suf- 
ficient assurance  to  any  girl  that  their  owner  would 
"  do  the  right  thing  "  by  her.  No  mistrust  was  pos- 
sible .  .  .  but  she  could  not  really  want  to  go  on 
living  with  them,  with  him  .  .  .  could  she?  Ed- 
ward caught  a  sudden  glance  from  Norah;  the  girl 
blushed,  frowned,  looked  away  again.  What  was 
she  thinking?  Eunice  moaned  again,  moved  her 
lips,  tried  to  raise  her  head,  let  it  fall.  She  was  not 
so  pale,  but  pale  still.  A  policeman  appeared  in  the 
distance,  walking  in  their  direction,  followed  by  sev- 
eral small  boys.  Edward  realised  that  their  group 
was  being  surreptitiously  stared  at. 

"  Eunice,"  he  said,  and  bent  down  to  her,  putting 
his  hands  under  her  head.     "  Eunice!  " 

*' Ah  —  yes,"  she  murmured,  "where  is  this? 
What  have  they  done  to  me?  Do  you  know  — 
you?"  She  looked  at  him,  frightened.  "Feigned 
or  real?  "  he  said  to  himself  again. 

"  You  fainted,"  he  explained.  "  The  sun  was  too 
hot.  If  you  could  stand  now  —  let  us  see."  He 
lifted  her  gradually:  she  rose  with  no  less  than  her 
own  grace;  the  curve  of  her  head  was  beautiful,  yes. 
Edward  saw  that  George  admired  her.  "  Now  lean 
on  me,"  he  went  on;  "  we  will  walk  very  slowly  to 


The  Buffoon  385 


that  seat.  Then  we  will  take  a  cab.  We  mustn't  be 
stared  at  too  much."  George  and  Norah  followed 
them;  Edward  could  hear  their  undertones. 

"Who  is  she?"  Eunice  whispered,  as  they  ap- 
proached the  seat.     "  Who  is  she?  " 

"  My  friend  George  Forrest's  wife. —  I  told 
you." 

"  Oh,  yes, —  you  told  me. —  Send  them  away." 
She  spoke  hurriedly.  "  Why  should  we  lunch  with 
them?     I  am  not  interested." 

"  Quite  right.  Of  course."  Edward  soothed 
her.  "  A  mere  country  girl,  of  no  particular  attrac- 
tion,—  no  distinction.  Why  should  we?  Forgive 
this  mania  of  mine  for  bringing  people  together.  I 
find  it,  you  see,  so  difficult  to  control.  You  are  bet- 
ter now?     Really  better?" 

They  sat  down.  George,  coming  with  Norah 
up  to  them, —  he  had  hung  back  a  little,  out  of 
delicacy, —  made  all  the  correct  inquiries.  He  was 
solicitous  in  a  thoroughly  gentlemanly  way.  Was 
there  anything  he  could  do?  Did  Miss  Dinwiddle 
really  feel  she  could  walk  to  the  cab?  Yes,  it  was 
there,  waiting. 

*'  Let's  go  then,"  said  Edward.  "  Miss  Din- 
widdie  is  entirely  recovered."  He  sprang  to  his  feet 
with  decisive  alacrity.  "  Come  along,  George. 
Norah,  you  mustn't  look  downcast.  I  can't  have 
your  bridal  happiness  spoiled,  even  for  an  hour." 
He  took  Eunice's  arm,  and  drew  her  with  him,  plac- 
ing his  other  hand  paternally  on  Norah's  shoulder. 


386  The  Buffoon 


George,  though  disturbed,  had  to  fall  into  their  line. 
"  Why,"  Edward  continued,  "  should  we  give  way 
to  impudent  Circumstance?  A  little  champagne 
would  do  us  all  good.  Courage,  my  children !  Are 
we  downhearted?  No!  So,  come  on!"  He 
swept  them  all  forward  as  to  a  dancing  measure. 
"  Lift  up  your  hearts !  "  he  cried.  "  We're  alive 
in  warm  weather!  Champagne  should  always  be 
drunk  at  midday  with  the  sun  shining.  The  Cafe 
Boule, —  what  do  you  say  to  the  Cafe  Boule?  That 
was  where  I  left  off.  'What  do  you  say  to — ?' 
Well,  what  is  there  to  say?  Say?  Why,  we'll 
sing, —  we'll  sing  together.  Not  like  the  morning 
stars,  not  on  your  life  — "  He  laughed  boisterously. 
"  We'll  sing  wedding-songs  of  Catullus, —  and 
dozens  of  our  own  into  the  bargain!  Dozens  of 
'em!  I've  said  it.  George,  you  rogue, —  my  old 
crony  of  years  gone  by, —  Norah,  you  naughty  child 
that  I've  known  since  you  were  half  out  of  your 
cradle, —  don't  dare  to  disobey  me !  Who's  to  give 
you  a  marriage  feast,  if  not  I  ?  Who  else  ?  I  won't 
hear  one  protestation,  I  — " 

"My  dear  fellow!"  George  interrupted.  Ed- 
ward had  got  them  up  to  the  door  of  the  taxi. 

Norah  laughed,  said,  "  Well,  I  never!  ",  blushed, 
put  her  hand  over  her  mouth,  hiding  her  lovely, 
strong,  white  teeth.  Edward  at  once  lifted  —  al- 
most lifted  —  her  into  the  cab.  The  chauffeur  awk- 
wardly relaxed  his  studied  expression  of  sympathetic 
gravity. 


The  Buffoon  387 

"  Now,  my  dear!  "  Edward  cried  to  Eunice,  who 
followed  Norah  in  passive  amazement,  realising  that 
if  she  did  anything  else  she  would  commit  herself 
and  fall  from  artistic  grace.     "Now,  my  dear!" 

George,  still  hesitating,  whispered  to  Edward: 
"  I  say, —  we  can't  really;  this  is  most  extraordin- 
ary." 

"  Don't  you  see?  "  Edward's  hushed  voice  came 
from  between  his  teeth  sibilant  and  imperative. 
"  It's  the  only  way.  Miss  Dinwiddie  —  really  ill 
unless  she's  taken  right  out  of  herself  —  absolute 
necessity  —  send  her  home  —  be  laid  up  for  weeks 
—  nerves  —  nerves  —  I  have  to  keep  it  up  —  jump 
in  —  quick." 

They  were  all  in.  "Cafe  Boule!"  Edward 
shouted.  Eunice  looked  at  him,  with  hatred,  Ed- 
ward felt  sure,  in  her  heart :  but  he  knew  she  wanted 
to  marry  him  more  than  ever.  Flattering,  but  in- 
convenient. 


CHAPTER  XLII 

JUST  before  their  lunch  Edward  found  occa- 
sion for  a  private  word  to  Eunice.  "  Of 
course,"  he  whispered,  "  I  did  mean  to  hurt 
you,  but  not  in  that  way;  not  as  you  thought.  No, 
no;  not  that."  She  answered  him  by  a  swift  caught- 
in  sigh,  and  the  occasion  was  cut  short. 

It  was  true,  Edward  was  emphatic  to  himself,  he 
after  all  merely  wanted  his  fun,  he  wanted  to  put 
them  all  together,  to  play  off  Eunice's  bluff  against 
George's  bluff;  he  wanted  to  comment  on  the  situa- 
tion. How  could  he  tell  that  she  would  be  struck, 
that  way?  He  couldn't;  no,  he  was  not  such  a  cad 
as  that  came  to.  But  would  George,  if  he  knew, 
absolve  him,  would  Molesworth  ?  He  could  im- 
agine well  enough  Tryers'  vindictive  censure. 
Tryers?  Not  a  hint  had  been  given  of  Tryers' 
revelations.  Edward  had  meant  to  touch  on  that 
point,  how  curious  that  he  hadn't.  Eunice  would 
wait  for  his  lead  there,  of  course.  How  angrily 
George  would  condemn  Tryers!  Edward's  revolv- 
ing thoughts  threw  a  sudden  light  on  Molesworth  as 
the  central  figure  in  unravelling  of  present  entangle- 
ments. In  a  trice  he  dashed  off  to  the  telephone  and 
summoned  him  to  the  rescue.     Molesworth  was  al- 

388 


rhe  Buffoon  389 


most  certain  to  be  at  the  Club,  and  he  never  lunched 
much  before  two  o'clock. 

Edward  returned  radiant.  "  Not  that  table, 
waiter!"  he  cried.  "Give  us  a  larger  one,  that 
one  over  there  in  the  sun.  We  are  five, —  five  we 
shall  be.  Don't  look  so  astonished,  George.  The 
truth  is,  I  hate  even  numbers.  They  are  unlucky. 
On  an  occasion  like  this  we  want  all  the  luck  there  is 
going.  Bring  at  once,  waiter,  a  Magnum  of  Pol 
Roger, —  Pol  Roger  1905.  The  hors  d'ceuvres 
also  at  once.  Absurd  to  wait."  He  turned  to 
Eunice.  "  I  never  wait. —  A  cocktail,  George. 
A  real  American  mixes  them  here,  a  man  of  infinite 
skill.  Eunice,  you  must  drink  a  cocktail.  A  patri- 
otic duty  —  and  you,  too,  Norah,  because  we  don't 
understand  them  down  at  Chesney.  Four  Martini 
cocktails,  waiter,  and  if  they're  out  of  a  bottle  I'll 
never  come  here  again.     Never!  never!  " 

He  looked  at  Eunice.  It  struck  him  that  she  was 
extraordinarily  elegant  just  then.  A  deliberate  ele- 
gance; fostered,  no  doubt,  that  Norah  might  feel  it. 
Eunice  was  still  pale,  her  eyes  were  bright,  her  mouth 
was  a  little  compressed.  On  guard,  she  was  on 
guard:  determined  to  speak  hardly  at  all,  he  could 
see  that.  Norah  was  much  taken  up  with  her  milieu : 
she  looked  about,  made  little  smothered  observations 
here  and  there  to  George :  "  I  like  this  place,  don't 
you?"  "Aren't  these  lovely  glasses,  such  a  nice 
shape?  "  "  What  pretty  flowers !  "  "  Do  you  like 
that  dress?"     "What  lots  of  people!     Do  they 


390  The  Buffoon 

come  here  every  day?"  Edward's  jealousy  was 
acute :  if  only  those  smothered  observations  were  for 
him,  if  only  he  could  be  the  confidant  of  this  naive 
rustic  rehsh  of  London  things !  Could  anything  be 
more  delicious  than  treating  a  country  girl  to  a  Lon- 
don jaunt,  manipulating  her  excitements,  ordering  the 
developments  of  each  sensational  day? 

George  had  by  now  succeeded  in  regulating  his 
features  to  an  expression  of  conviviality.  He  drank 
his  cocktail  with  an  appearance  of  gusto.  "  Our 
host!  "  he  cried,  motioning  towards  Edward.  Eu- 
nice and  Norah  drank  with  him,  Eunice  raising  her- 
self, leaning  on  the  arm  of  her  chair,  with  a  fastidious 
reluctant  grace  that  extorted  Edward's  admiration. 
How  she  kept  it  up,  through  thick  and  thin !  That 
fading  equivocal  movement  of  her  glass  towards 
him.  .  .  .  Ah,  how  she  kept  it  going,  with  the  sub- 
tlety bluff,  the  sensibility  bluff,  the  bluff  of  exquisite 
comprehension  and  unworded  pathos,  and  all  that! 
But  what  good  was  "  all  that "  to  him?  The  devil 
take  all  subtleties  that  aren't  on  intimate  terms  with 
the  first  things !  Edward  cried  out  for  the  sweet  bru- 
tality of  what  is  nothing  more  than  earth  and  so 
nothing  less,  of  what  has  in  It,  hidden  and  unchange- 
able, the  secret  of  all  fixed  natural  relations,  the  rela- 
tions of  sun  and  earth,  of  moon  and  sea:  the  secret 
of  the  law  by  which  seasons  turn  and  return.  His 
very  individualism,  in  strong  reaction,  deepened  this 
craving:  if  he  was  to  sacrifice  to  sex,  as  sacrifice  he 
must,  let  the  oblation  be  made  on  a  palpable  altar, 


rhe  Buffoon  391 

an  altar  of  clear  and  positive  demand,  an  altar  on 
which  burned  no  mixed  or  alien  flames.  No  echo  in 
that  shrine  of  mingled  voices  in  equivocal  utterance. 
No,  he  would  not  be  made  mad  that  way.  He  would 
yield  himself  to  the  potent  general  flux,  for  a  time, 
and  then,  having  paid  the  tribute  exacted,  a  tribute 
as  inevitable  as  that  to  death,  he  would  revert  sus- 
tained and  calm  to  the  equal  clime  of  his  personality. 
So  he  would  be  saved.  He  would  hover  midway  be- 
tween individual  consciousness  and  sex  no  longer: 
that  was  Eunice's  way,  the  way  of  most  women,  the 
way  into  which  women  tried  to  lead  men,  in  order 
to  enslave  them.  No  more  of  that !  Yes,  this  other 
girl  was  unfeminine,  in  our  modern  sense:  there  was 
her  inalienable  appeal.  Edward  had  always  needed 
an  unfeminine  woman,  but  had  never  before  known 
what  it  was  that  he  needed,  nor  why  he  needed  it. 
Now  he  understood.  Betty  had  done  well  for  a 
time,  because  of  the  approach  she  made  to  his  satis- 
faction; but  she  had  been  twisted  by  town  life,  and 
—  how  unfortunate  !  —  by  poverty  and  toil.  She 
was  too  badly  nourished,  too  hectic,  she  had  been 
docked  too  much.  Besides,  she  had  not  Norah's 
eyes  or  neck  or  bosom.  No,  Betty  was  never  a  sym- 
bolic figure.  Norah,  grown  as  now,  was  perfect: 
how  poetic  his  Immediate  response  to  her !  Impos- 
sible that  she  should  not  answer.   .   .   . 

Edward  was  almost  afraid  to  look  at  Norah,  or  to 
speak  to  her.  He  must  betray  nothing,  and  he  could 
not  trust  himself  as  securely  as  he  wished.     Per- 


392  The  Buffoon 

haps  he  should  not  have  been  so  direct,  even  to  her 
alone.  That  "I  want  you!"  Was  that  then  a 
false  step? —  So  George  had  been  wiser  than  he, 
—  or  luckier?  Yes,  of  course  it  was  blind  good 
luck,  nothing  else.  George  —  the  discreet,  correct, 
unbending,  ethical  George !  So  he,  even  he,  had 
surrendered  to  her,  she  had  made  him  turn  his 
somersault,  well  enough,  in  complete  circle!  No 
wonder.  .  .  .  Proof  enough  there  that  Edward 
was  not  under  illusion.  Proof!  Absurd  to  name 
it! 

Thinking,  Edward  talked,  talked  much  and  with 
some  effort,  the  effort  of  a  man  swimming  under 
water.  He  talked  of  the  wine,  the  fashions  of  dress, 
the  charm  of  London,  the  charm  of  Paris.  George 
interposed  occasionally  such  remarks  as:  "Yes, 
connoisseurs  may  talk  of  claret,  but  after  all  there's 
nothing  quite  like  champagne,  is  there?"  "A 
thoroughly  sound  wine  this,  Raynes,  eh?"  "Not 
that  I  objected  to  the  hobble  skirt  as  such,  but  they 
overdid  it.  Don't  you  think.  Miss  Dinwiddie,  that 
they  overdid  it?  "  "  But  what  I  can't  stand  in  Paris 
is  the  traffic.  Perfectly  awful.  In  the  Champs- 
Elysees  it's  a  regular  nightmare.  Any  number  of 
accidents  every  day.     They  really  ought  to  — " 

These  interpositions  of  George  became  more  fre- 
quent as  he  began  to  mellow  to  the  wine :  he  drank 
more  freely  than  usual,  from  embarrassment.  Ed- 
ward, too,  drank  freely,  from  excitement.  Eunice, 
on  the  other  hand,  drank  warily,  and  rather  furtively, 


The  Buffoon  393 

as  well  brought  up  American  women  generally  do. 
Norah  at  first  approached  her  wine  with  caution  and 
some  mistrust,  as  though  she  feared  that  it  might 
intoxicate  her  suddenly,  without  any  warning.  Find- 
ing that  this  was  not  so,  she  grew  bolder,  she  took 
brave  gulps,  and  exclaimed  that,  though  it  tasted 
funny  at  first,  it  really  was  nicer  than  cider, —  even 
the  best  cider.  Her  young  mouth  relaxed,  her 
cheeks  flushed  as  from  sea-wind.  She  smiled  at 
George,  at  Edward, —  who  dared  once  to  touch 
glasses  with  her  across  the  table,  saying  in  a  rather 
tremulous,  rather  strange  and  ungauged  tone  of 
voice  :  "  We  drink  to  Life !  "  Then  he  bit  his  lips, 
and  found  the  silent  Eunice  regarding  him  with  veiled 
curiosity  and  disapproval,  as  though  he  had  com- 
mitted a  gaucherie.     He  probably  had. 

Norah  replied,  "All  right!"  and  drained  her 
glass,  which  she  put  down  with  a  sense  of  an  en- 
trancing ambient  waviness  in  her  brain,  a  waviness 
sparklingly  projected  upon  her  field  of  vision.  She 
was  no  longer  afraid  of  the  silent,  strange  lady  who 
had  fainted:  the  strange  lady  seemed  to  have  become 
friendly  to  her;  she  came  in,  now,  amiably  enough. 
"We  don't  want  to  die,  do  we?"  said  Norah,  as 
Edward  refilled  her  glass. 

"  We  do  not,"  replied  Edward,  "  and  we  won't. 
It's  in  us  not  to.     And,  Norah,  you — " 

He  stopped;  he  felt  suddenly  frozen  by  Eunice's 
presence.  Turning  to  her  he  said:  "Well,  now, 
we  carry  the  Universe  about  with  us,  I  appeal  to  you, 


394  The  Buffoon 

don't  we  ?  Aren't  we  all  of  us  as  undying  as  the  grass 
or  the  stars?  " 

"  That  is  beautiful."  Eunice  answered  in  a  low, 
melodious,  very  thoughtful  tone.  "  Yes,  and  it  is 
true.  Change  can  never  kill, —  no."  She  was 
propitiated. 

Edward  thought  that  Norah  sent  him  a  smile,  but 
he  could  not  be  sure.  He  began  to  chatter  again, 
and  discovered  that  George  was  now  mellow  enough 
to  be  very  easily  amused. 

"What  a  fellow  you  are,  Raynes!"  George 
shot  an  affectionate  gleam  through  the  pince-nez 
which  had  replaced  the  spectacles  he  always  used  to 
wear.  "What  a  fellow!  Always  the  same:  same 
old  sport!  Never  knew  you  down  in  the  mouth  yet. 
One  lark  or  another.  Always  so  —  what's  the  word 
I  want?  what  is  it? — 'mercurial,'  that's  it.  Don't 
you  think,  Miss  Dinwiddie,  that  our  friend  here 
has  what  you'd  call  a  very  mercurial  tempera- 
ment? " 

He  had  indeed. 

"  Mercury  is  one  of  my  favourite  gods,"  remarked 
Edward,  as  Eunice  was  responding,  according  to  her 
use,  by  an  enigmatic  look.  "  You  must  be  right. 
Yes,  I'd  rather  be  Mercury  than  any  of  'em.  You 
flatter  me,  George.  Marriage  has  taught  you  how 
to  pay  compliments." 

George  averted  his  gaze,  coyly,  and  drank  more 
champagne.  Norah  looked  at  Edward,  puzzled  and 
extraordinarily  sweet.     "  You  wouldn't  surely,"  she 


The  Buffoon  395 

seemed  to  say,  "  be  attacking  me,  would  you?  "  Ed- 
ward tingled  and  melted;  he  loved  her,  so  he  thought, 
to  a  desperation  infinitely  beyond  the  limits  of  speech, 
almost  beyond  the  limits  of  sensation.  "  Of  course 
she  is  mine:  but  how  can  I  bear  it  when  she  comes? 
I  might  die  then."  He  was  perfectly  serious. 
"  Oh,  Norah,  Norah!  "  was  his  refrain  that  rang. 

At  this  particular  ecstatic  point  for  Edward, 
Molesworth  appeared.  Edward,  for  a  moment, 
wondered  why,  but  he  hailed  him  exuberantly  none 
the  less.  "  We've  been  waiting  for  this !  "  he  cried, 
as  he  half  rose  and  took  the  young  man  by  the  shoul- 
der. Edward  made  the  introductions  very  vivid, 
very  intense :  he  might  hav^e  been  presenting  Moles- 
worth  to  landmarks  in  his  life ;  it  was  no  wonder  that 
Molesworth  wondered  what  was  up,  and  took  in 
some  bewilderment  the  chair  reserved  for  him  on 
Eunice's  left.  The  waiter  immediately  gave  him 
something  to  eat  and  filled  his  glass. 

"  Before  you  drink,"  said  Edward,  in  a  tone  of 
unabated  enthusiasm;  "  before  you  drink,  I  give  you 
a  toast.  '  Our  ideal  in  Womanhood.'  The  ladies 
must  drink  too  — " 

"  What?  "  said  Norah  gaily.  "  To  the  kind  of 
man  we  like  best?  " 

"  No,  no,  Norah,  that's  not  the  same  thing.  You 
can't  drink  to  your  ideal  in  manhood;  you  know,  all 
of  you,  in  your  heart  of  hearts,  you  haven't  got  one. 
You  don't  worship  ideals. —  In  fact  I'm  not  sure 
that  you  should  drink  this  toast  at  all.     We  three 


396  The  Buffoon 

men  will  drink  it.  Now.  '  Our  ideal  In  Woman- 
hood.' " 

As  he  drank,  looking  straight  In  front  of  him,  at 
a  point  between  George  and  Norah,  Edward  re- 
flected that  he  would  have  to  drink  at  least  another 
bottle  before  he  could  repeat  that  nauseous  phrase 
without  wincing.  Still,  it  had  to  be  done :  he  must 
give  Molesworth  his  cue.  That  engaging  sentimen- 
talist was  already  set  for  the  mood  that  nurtured 
him;  he  was  drinking  with  his  humid  blue  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  ceiling;  the  very  tilt  of  his  nose  betokened 
aspirations  unattalned.  George  gallantly  turned  to 
Norah  for  the  toast,  and  she  looked  pleased,  as  Ed- 
ward by  no  means  did,  when  he  observed  her.  Was 
it  possible  —  did  she  really  — ?  But  of  course  girls 
liked  that  kind  of  attention. 

"  I'm  the  most  unfortunate  feller,"  said 
Molesworth  sadly,  putting  down  his  glass. 
"  Good  women, —  Ideal  women, —  I  —  Ah.  .  .  . 
Don't  know  how  it  is.     I  — " 

"  My  dear  old  Molesworth  I  "  Edward  inter- 
rupted him.  "  That's  why  I  asked  you  to  lunch  to- 
day!" 

Molesworth  stared  at  him  thoughtfully.  He  be- 
gan to  remember  their  last  conversation.  Was  this 
Miss  Dinwiddle  Raynes's  fiancee  ?  he  wondered.  Eu- 
nice herself  quickened  her  suspecting  alertness;  she 
was  more  than  ever  on  her  guard,  Edward  knew  it. 

"  I  want  us  all,"  Edward  continued,  "  from  this- 
point  on  to  be  entirely  ourselves.     We  are  none  of 


The  Buffoon  397 

us  conventional,  now,  are  we?  George  Forrest,  of 
course,  pretends  to  be,  but  in  his  heart  he  knows  he's 
not."  George  started  and  gave  Edward  a  look,  as 
much  as  to  say  "  How  on  earth  did  you  find  that 
out?  "  "  As  for  you,  Molesworth,  you're  the  most 
unconventional  man  I  know."  Molesworth  nodded 
gravely.  "  And  no  woman  ever  treats  convention 
except  as  a  sop  to  be  thrown  to  stupid  men, —  or 
morality,  either,"  he  added  with  a  vehemence  that 
made  them  all  a  little  uncomfortable. 

"  Oh,  come  now,  Raynes,"  Molesworth  pro- 
tested, "  I  don't  follow  you  there.  What  would  be- 
come of  morality  without  women,  eh?  Tell  me 
that." 

"Or  immorality?  But  don't  let's  talk  of  Illu- 
sions, let's  talk  of  realities.     Let's  talk  of  ourselves." 

He  refilled  Molesworth's  glass,  and  Molesworth, 
after  a  further  draught,  turned  without  hesitation  to 
Eunice,  applying  himself  to  her  with  an  intent  quite 
as  marked  as  Edward  could  have  most  hopefully  ex- 
pected. To  Edward's  keen  gratification,  Moles- 
worth paid  homage;  he  was  at  once  the  soiled  way- 
farer and  she  the  shrine  of  comfort  and  counsel,  our 
Lady  of  Succours.  He  was  just  drunk  enough! 
Soon  they  were  talking  in  undertones, —  actually 
that !  —  they  had  made  a  corner,  and  Edward  heard 
him  say:  "You  can  help  me,  Miss  Dinwiddle,  I 
know  you  can."  She  replied:  "If  I  can,  I  will. 
We  all  need  help  —  so  much." 

Meanwhile  Edward  was  exchanging  reminiscences 


398  The  Buffoon 

with  George,  whose  spirits  were  now  high  and 
hearty.  Norah,  with  Hds  luxuriously  weighted,  was 
lazy,  indifferent,  well  lapped  in  her  diffused  sensuous 
flow,  happy  and  sleepy,  at  ease  in  pleasant  response 
to  her  food,  her  wine  and  the  scene.  "  Fancy  us  all 
like  this,  up  here.  Oh,  dear,  it's  different  to  Ches- 
ney!  "  she  said,  and  things  like  that. 

Edward  glowed  with  satisfaction.  Self-con- 
gratulation flowed  about  his  veins  in  a  warm  current; 
he  was  really  vain.  So  much,  then,  he  had  done, 
quite  in  accordance  with  his  will  and  prevision :  and 
so  much  more,  much  more,  he  would  do !  He  would 
use  Reggie  Tryers.  Welsh  should  be  initiated  as 
conspirator,  Welsh  should  lead  Tryers  on,  dazzle 
Tryers  with  aspects  of  Eunice's  wealth.  Welsh  was 
a  born  match-maker,  and  Tryers  could  be  led  to  pay 
court,  especially  if  his  courtship  could  be  spiced  with 
love  of  gain  and  the  satisfaction  of  the  revengeful 
spleen  which  Edward  knew  he  felt  towards  him  now. 
Then  would  come  Molesworth's  turn.  Molesworth 
extremely  disliked  Tryers,  thought  him  an  outsider, 
a  "  real  wrong  'un,"  "  a  bad  man."  Edward  would 
confide  in  Molesworth,  excite  his  indignation  by  re- 
vealing Tryers  as  the  basest  of  sneaks  for  his  caddish 
interposition.  .  .  .  Then,  the  finale.  Molesworth 
to  the  rescue,  a  Molesworth  captivated  already  by 
Eunice  and  animated  further  by  indignant  detestation 
of  Tryers.  Molesworth,  then,  from  a  sense  of  duty 
and  high  devotion,  would  show  Tryers  up  as  he  de- 
served to  be  shown,  and  win  Eunice  for  himself  in 


rJie  Buffoon  399 


reward!  Eunice  would  be  Mrs.  Theocrite  Moles- 
worth.  How  wonderfully  appropriate!  Why, 
what  else  could  they  do?  As  soon  as  one  realised 
that  Christian  name  one  was  sure  they  were  born 
for  each  other. —  But  would  it  all  work  out?  A 
little  difficult  to  manipulate,  this  scheme,  especially 
towards  the  end,  but  Edward  would  succeed;  he  had 
the  highest  confidence  in  his  powers,  succeed  he  must. 
And  Norah  —  Norah  was  of  course  to  be  his:  but 
he  did  not  want  to  make  an  enemy  of  George ;  George 
was  so  simple,  so  companionable,  so  nice,  especially 
just  then.  George  was  good  fun ;  he  had  always  en- 
joyed amusing  himself  with  George.  He  must 
manoeuvre  in  that  direction  too.  George  would  be 
won,  no  doubt,  by  the  prospect  of  his  complete  re- 
habilitation in  respectability.  Probably  no  one 
knew  of  his  escapade  as  yet;  he  would  very  soon  be 
thankful  to  get  off  scot  free.  He  would  regret: 
Edward  would  talk  to  him  and  make  him  re- 
gret. ...  If  necessary  Edward  was  prepared  to 
use  his  own  infidelity  with  Norah  as  a  lever  to  press 
Eunice  to  Molesworth's  arms,  but  he  rather  hoped 
it  would  not  come  to  that.  If  it  did,  it  must  come 
towards  the  end,  not  earlier,  on  no  account  earlier, 
or  the  play  with  Molesworth  would  go  wrong.  Ed- 
ward had  to  admit,  even  in  those  very  sanguine 
vinous  moments,  that  it  was  not  all  quite  clear-cut 
in  his  mind  yet.  Still  he  would  contrive,  he  would 
watch,  he  would  take  his  chances  one  by  one  with  in- 
finite judgment,  as  they  came.     All  would  be  well. 


400  The  Buffoo7i 

See  how  Eunice  and  Molesworth  were  engaging  one 
another:  magnificent  I 

"  I  have  felt  that  always,"  she  was  saying. 

"  If  I  could !  I  do  wish  that  I  could.  I  want  to, 
really  honestly  I  want  to.  But  I  seem  always  to  be 
making  —  well,  you  know,  making  boss-shots  at 
everything  that's  worth  anything."  Molesworth's 
eyes  were  very  wide  open,  his  loose  lips  quivered. 

"  We  aim,"  Eunice  murmured,  "  and  if  we  aim, 
we  grow." 

"  You  make  me  feel  —  well,  you  make  me  feel  that 
I  can  —  can  grow.  You  make  me  feel  —  er  —  that 
I'm  looking  at  the  gutter  —  er  —  in  the  stars. 
No,  not  that  'xac'ly.  Lookin'  at  the  stars,  I  mean, 
of  course. —  Silly  ass. —  The  fact  is.  Miss  Din- 
widdie,  you  understand  jus'  what  I  mean, —  won- 
derful. It's  wonderful,  really,  because  I  can't  ex- 
press myself, —  never  could.  No  brains,  y'  know, 
no  brains  — " 

"  We  can  never  express  our  real  selves, —  can  we? 
If  we  express  them,  they  are  no  longer  real."  She 
leaned  her  head  upon  her  hand,  and  her  eyes,  as  they 
rested  upon  him,  were  full  of  grave  unspoken 
thoughts.     Nothing  could  be  better. 

It  was  Eunice  who  moved  first  for  departure.  She 
had  made  her  effect  upon  Molesworth,  left  that  effect 
at  exactly  the  right  point  for  a  first  encounter,  and 
it  was  time  to  go.  She  pressed  her  long  white  fingers 
across  her  brow.  "  I  think  I  must  —  but  you,  you 
stay.     Don't  go  —  for  me." 


The  Buffoon  401 

Molesworth  started  to  his  feet  at  once.  Edward 
stood  up,  and  so  did  George.  Norah  sat  still,  re- 
garding them  all  with  a  soft  puckered  smile  that 
seemed  perfectly  to  express  her  contented  acceptance 
of  everything  for  which  she  was  or  might  be  the 
medium.  She  had  that  look  of  being  favoured  and 
pleasured,  and  yet  all  the  while  inevitably  aware,  a 
little  way  back, —  that  look  which  one  knows  in  cats 
by  walls  on  sunned  afternoons. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Edward,  "  I  am  going  with 
you.  The  fresh  air  —  we  shall  drive  in  the  open. 
But  I  am  sorry  —  we  are  all  sorry.  No  good- 
byes between  us,  George.  Molesworth,  we  shall 
meet  to-night  or  to-morrow.  You  shall  have  that  re- 
venge of  yours.  Norah,  you're  happy  and  you  al- 
ways will  be. 

'  In  truth,  it  is  our  Norah's  lot, 
When  Fate  speaks  frowning,  she  answers  not.' 

My  own?  No,  a  parody.  I  was  always  good  at 
parodies." 

He  took  Norah's  hand.  Her  smile  was  lively  for 
a  moment  as  she  thanked  him  and  said:  "  I  have 
enjoyed  myself,  Mr.  Raynes,  I  have  really!  "  She 
and  Eunice  exchanged  faint  intimations  of  farewells; 
George  seemed  for  a  moment  inclined  to  reach  for 
his  hat,  but  was  checked  by  a  glance  from  Norah. 
Norah  preferred  to  wait. 

Molesworth  went  with  Edward  and  Eunice;  he 
took  leave  of  them  at  the  door  of  their  cab.     When 


402  The  Buffoon 

Edward  asked  if  they  could  give  him  a  lift,  he  shook 
his  head  and  replied  earnestly:  "  No,  I'll  walk.  I 
want  to  think.  A  lot  to  think  about;  and  I  can  al- 
ways think  better  when  I  walk." 

"  All  right !  "  Edward  sang  out.  "  Don't  run  into 
anybody,  that's  all!  " 

During  the  drive  they  talked  little  and  said  noth- 
ing. Eunice  seemed  lost  in  a  blue-grey  mist;  Ed- 
ward's mind  was  distracted  by  revolutions  of  alterna- 
tive devices.  When  they  stood  at  the  gate  of  her 
cousins'  house,  the  girl  held  out  her  hand. 

"  We  have  made  a  mistake,"  she  said  simply. 
"  I  came  meaning  to  tell  you,  but  it  was  —  so  —  so 
hard  to  me.  I  could  not  speak  —  not  then,  I  am 
going  to  marry  Raoul  Root.     Good-bye." 

He  bowed,  astounded,  and  when  his  shattered 
brain  was  beginning  weakly  to  react  towards  an  ade- 
quate reply,  she  had  glided  from  him  up  the  steps. 
The  door  opened  for  her;  she  was  gone.  As  always 
she  had  managed  well. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

EDWARD  drove  on  at  once  to  his  rooms. 
Vexation  and  perturbing  doubt  kept  shoot- 
ing their  fangs  through  the  clogging  hide  of 
his  stupefaction.  He  wished  he  had  not  drunk  so 
much  champagne;  if  only  they  had  stopped  with  the 
Magnum  he  might  have  been  better  able  to  adjust 
the  matter  to  himself.  A  full  quart  —  he  must  have 
drunk  a  full  quart.  Then  there  was  that  cocktail; 
a  cocktail  first  always  made  some  difference, —  some 
difference,  yes. —  Yes. —  That  was  why  he  was 
always  getting  so  far  and  no  further,  and  then  back 
again  to  his  mental  point  of  departure.  His  cheeks 
were  burning  and  his  mouth  was  dry.  Overexcite- 
ment:  too  much  champagne.  That  was  it.  And 
then  this  shock  at  the  end.  Why,  his  brain  had 
been  clear  enough  before,  or  he  thought  it  had. 
Perhaps  it  hadn't  really,  after  all. —  Now  it  re- 
fused to  move,  or  when  it  did  move  it  went  in  un- 
comfortable teasing  little  jerks,  like  the  jerks  of  a 
halted  motorcar. 

The  point  was  —  he  returned  —  had  Eunice  told 
the  truth?  It  might  easily  be  that  seeing  what  was 
coming  she  wanted  to  save  her  pride :  no  doubt  she 
could  be  engaged  to  marry  Root  any  day.     Ed- 

403 


404  The  Buffoon 


ward's  vanity  hoped  that  she  had  saved  her  pride. 
Of  course,  anyhow,  she  had  spared  him  a  great  deal 
of  trouble,  but  it  was  trouble  that  he  didn't,  he  real- 
ised, want  to  be  spared.  Those  pains  he  was  to 
take,  so  beautifully  prepared  for!  No,  in  any  event, 
he  had  been  let  down,  he  could  not  get  out  of  that, — 
disconcertingly  bumped,  as  though  a  rope  had  broken 
somewhere;  that  was  what  It  was  like. —  Could 
Tryers  possibly  have  made  any  difference?  But  he 
thought  not.  And  why  had  she  fainted?  Was  it 
from  chagrin  because  of  his  Invitation  to  Norah  and 
George,  did  his  lack  of  preoccupation  with  her  at 
that  point  threaten  to  blunt  the  fine  edge  of  the  dis- 
closure she  was  to  make  to  him  ?  Could  people  faint 
from  chagrin?  Or  was  It  merely  that  she  thought 
the  luncheon  party  would  bore  her?  Or  was  it, 
after  all,  the  sun?  Who  could  tell?  At  any  rate, 
if  she  had  feared  that  her  disclosure  would  miss  fire, 
fall  flat,  she  was  wrong  there.  He  hoped  she  was 
not  quite  sure. 

When  Edward  got  to  his  rooms  he  found  a  letter 
from  his  Aunt  Amelia,  a  letter  posted  early  that 
morning  from  Westbeach,  enclosing  a  cutting  from 
that  day's  Morning  Post.  "  A  marriage  has  been 
arranged.  .  .  .  Miss  Eunice  Dinwiddle.  .  .  .  Mr. 
Raoul  Root.  .  .  ."  The  usual  thing,  the  incon- 
trovertible, formal,  smooth  statement !  He  glanced 
at  the  letter.  "  Your  mother  .  .  .  most  distressed. 
We  are  quite  bewildered.  I  don't  know  whether  to 
be  sorry  or  glad.     Please  write.     It  was  really  a 


The  Buffoon  405 

shock  ...  so  very  soon.   .  .  .   But  perhaps  only  a 
strange  coincidence!  " 

Edward  dropped  the  letter  and  the  cutting  into  the 
waste-paper  basket,  mechanically  putting  the  en- 
velope into  his  pocket,  because  he  always  used  the 
backs  of  envelopes  for  making  notes.  He  collapsed 
in  his  largest  armchair,  and  fell  sound  asleep.  He 
did  not  wake  till  past  midnight,  and  his  first  thought 
then  was  that  he  wanted  a  cup  of  tea. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

THERE  was,  after  all,  Edward  surmised  as  he 
poured  the  spirit  for  his  lamp,  some  satis- 
faction in  being  completely,  perfectly,  un- 
deniably, a  proved  buffoon.  Now,  at  any  rate,  he 
knew  where  he  was.  And  hadn't  he,  at  last  he  ques- 
tioned, played  the  buffoon  at  every  step,  with  com- 
panionship, with  love,  with  art,  with  intellectual  toys, 
with  sensual  toys,  with  every  kind  of  conduct  and  of 
thought?  That  grinning  mask  was  inevitable  for 
him;  he  could  do  nothing,  think  nothing,  that  did 
not  instantaneously  take  it  on.  Existence  thus  con- 
ditioned had  seemed,  it  is  true,  affable  enough.  If 
only  the  uncomfortable,  the  really  grim  conviction 
wouldn't  creep  on  him  now  that  it  was  the  destiny  of 
buffoons  to  be  broken  and  thrown  on  one  side.  An 
elderly  buffoon !  And  George  was  twenty-six. 
That  was  it,  Edward  was  leaving  his  youth,  had  left 
it;  and  elderly  buffoons  were  paid,  it  seemed,  their 
wages.  This  explained,  no  doubt,  that  queer  crisis, 
that  grotesque  upheaval,  through  which  he  had  lately 
been  passing.  How  long  was  it  since  he  had  met 
Welsh ?  —  Last  Thursday  week, —  only  nine  days : 
very  appropriate,  a  nine  days'  wonder.  That  would 
appeal  to  Welsh. —  So  it  was  Welsh  who  had 
jerked  him  out  of  the  eighteenth  century!  —     That 

406 


The  Buffoon  407 

desperate  instinctive  effort  to  escape  from  the  circus 
ring  before  it  was  too  late !  And  all  that  had  hap- 
pened was  that  he  had  been  more  uproariously  the 
clown  than  ever,  a  clown  with  eyes  even  more  closely 
bandaged  than  before,  playing  his  Blind  Man's  Buff 
among  the  ladies  1  He  had  been  so  serious  a  mat- 
ter to  himself,  too,  these  last  few  days,  grave-faced 
very  often  on  the  brink  of  new  discoveries,  pinning 
high  hopes  on  his  advancing  Ego,  his  "  Ego  and  its 
own," — "  Myself  and  my  tail,"  as  Welsh  had  para- 
phrased that  celebrated  title. —  And  all  the  while 
he  had  been,  in  his  holy  simplicity,  busied  with  an 
unconscious  reversion,  by  new  circuit,  to  his  type. 
He  had  hopped  and  jumped  to  leap  out  of  the  ring, 
for  evasion  of  his  unfriendly  future,  but  he  had  cut 
his  capers  with  an  elastic  cord  round  his  belly,  to 
pull  him  back,  all  the  while.  So  now  here  he  was 
plump  once  more  on  the  old,  indubitable,  familiar,  na- 
tive sanded  patch! 

He  poured  out  his  tea.  Perhaps  buffoons  were 
genuinely  tragic  figures.  One  might  hope  so,  at  any 
rate.  That  would  be  something.  He  remembered 
Watteau's  Gilles,  but  then  he  was  not  in  the  least 
like  Gilles.  Damn  it,  was  he  perfectly  a  buffoon, 
after  all?  No,  he  was  a  buffoon  without  real  aban- 
don, and  it  was  with  abandon  that  a  buffoon's  tragedy 
must  be  involved.  Edward  blamed  that  definitely 
middle-class  strain  that  was  infused  with  his  blood. 
Still,  buffoonery,  of  a  sort,  had  made  him,  buffoonery 
might  save  him.     There  was  no  reason  why  some 


408  The  Buffoon 


sort  of  a  buffoon  should  not  be  some  sort  of  a  phi- 
losopher. 

"  BufFoonery  has  made, 
Buffoonery  may  save, 
Edward  Raynes." 

He  would  write  verses, —  real  verses  with  rhyme  and 
rhythm.  He  would  show  them  to  Jack  Welsh. 
Jack,  was  a  critic, —  a  prince  of  critics.  He  had  told 
Edward  so  himself,  and  if  Edward  reminded  him 
he  would  not  blush.  Yes,  Edward  wanted  to  write, 
he  was  almost  compelled  to  write,  at  this  hour  of 
revelation.  "  I  am  a  buffoon,"  he  said  aloud,  "  an 
indifferent  buffoon,  but  I  know  my  master,  and,  by 
the  Lord,  I  work  or  sport  for  him  with  some  intelli- 
gence. I'm  paid,  but  I'll  know  something  about  my 
bill  and  my  wages." 

He  drank  many  cups  of  tea,  smoked  many  cigar- 
ettes, and  by  about  three  o'clock  had  written  two 
verses,  in  fair  characters: 

"  The  wheel  goes  round,  and  loves  most  dear 
Are  mocked  by  loves  that  follow  after: 
While  sere  grows  green  as  green  grows  sere, 
Joy,  sorrow,  turn  to  monstrous  laughter. 

And  so,  my  friend,  we  tumble  and  twist, 

And  the  mills  of  God  take  in  the  grist. 

"Then,  Comic  Irony  debonair! 

Go  smiling  on,  nor  yet  relent: 

Keep  still  your  unabated  flair 

For  chance  and  change  of  sentiment. 
What  capers  cuts  our  grave  Romance 
One  side  and  t'other  of  Circumstance !  " 


rhe  Buffoon 409 

Perhaps  the  lines  would  do  for  Mrs.  O'Malley's 
paper.  How  unpardonable !  That  he  had  com- 
pletely forgotten  his  promise  to  write  an  account  of 
"  Qu*  est-ce  que  c'est  que  I' art? "  Never  mind. 
He  would  send  those  verses  instead.  He  would 
send  them  to  Eunice  —  splendid  idea  !  Why  really, 
when  you  thought  of  it,  they  might  have  been  written 
for  Eunice,  and  of  course  they  were  written  on  her 
account.  Also  on  Norah's:  no  matter,  let  Eunice 
make  what  she  liked  of  them.  Edward  folded  the 
fair  copy,  took  a  sheet  of  notepaper  and  wrote: 
"Would  this  do  for  Mrs.  O'Malley?  Send  it  to 
her  if  you  think  it  would."  After  he  had  written 
Eunice's  name  and  address,  and  sealed  the  en- 
velope, he  felt  suddenly  exhausted.  "  Creative  ef- 
fort," he  murmured,  tapping  his  forehead,  "  crea- 
tive effort."  Catching  sight  of  a  photograph  of  his 
father  he  speculated  for  a  moment  upon  heredity. 
He  could  imagine  his  father  alluding  humorously  to 
"  creative  effort,"  and  tapping  his  forehead,  just 
after  having  written  a  sermon  or  a  paragraph  for  the 
Parish  Magazine.  Yes,  but  he  wasn't  all  his 
father's,  not  by  a  long  chalk,  and  it  was  just  there 
that  Comic  Irony  stepped  along,  "  Comic  Irony 
debonair."  Those  verses, —  second-rate  verses, 
third-rate  perhaps,  but  not  written  with  his  father's 
pen. 

He  stretched  himself  In  his  chair  and  yawned. — 
Eunice !  He  thought  of  that  interview  at  her 
cousins'.     What  an  actress!     There  he  had  indeed 


410  The  Buffoon 


been  right.  Lord  have  mercy,  to  think  of  that 
schemed  toil  of  his, —  Molesworth,  Tryers,  Welsh 
the  fellow-conspirator,  George  even,  perhaps, 
dragged  in  somehow, —  why,  he  had  been  thrilled  by 
the  creative  joy  of  the  novelist, —  damn!  —  he,  Ed- 
ward, Edward  Raynes,  Buffoon, —  made  game  of  all 
the  time,  thorough  and  thorough!  So  Eunice  had 
been  "  playing  "  him  with  an  unscrupulousness  far 
more  uncompromising  and  comprehensive  than  his 
own;  very  likely  she  had  used  him  from  the  first  for 
her  own  purposes, —  of  course  she  had!  —  just  to 
lead  this  Raoul  Root  on  and  in ;  partly,  too,  no  doubt, 
for  the  sake  of  experience.  And  he  had  never  un- 
derstood her  the  whole  time  through,  not  understood 
her  in  the  least.  Yet  when  she  said  to  him,  that 
first  evening:  "Go  on,- — quickly  —  beat  Raoul," 
he  might  have  guessed.  At  any  rate  Tryers  had 
ludicrously  wasted  his  endeavours.  Tryers  had 
played  a  farcical  part  too.  Some  consolation  there, 
but  not  much.  Edward  was  quite  sure  now  that 
Tryers  had  made  no  difference  whatever.  The  in- 
terview between  those  two !  He  could  well  imagine 
Eunice's  part  in  that,  how  she  would  have  played  up, 
her  response,  her  distress,  her  appeal,  and  her  in- 
ward consciousness  of  how  things  really  were. 
What  lessons  women  have  to  teach  men!  Lessons 
indeed !     Edward  fell  asleep  again. 


CHAPTER  XLV 

SEVERAL  days  passed,  passed  with  a  curious 
heavy  swiftness  for  Edward,  in  contrast  with 
those  other  crowded  ones  that  had  been 
both  light  for  him  and  slow.  He  wrote  to  his 
mother:  "Yes,  it  is  quite  true.  I  have  been 
jilted,"  and  left  her  to  meditate  from  that  romanti- 
cally upon  his  broken  heart.  She  would  not  be  ill- 
pleased.  He  remembered  that  she  had  tried  to  per- 
suade him  into  becoming  a  chronic  invalid  at  twenty- 
seven  after  an  attack  of  jaundice. 

Edward  went  to  the  Club,  gambled,  chatted,  drank 
little :  he  listened  to  Moles  worth's  admirations  of 
Eunice.  "  Too  good  for  me,"  Molesworth  re- 
peated, "  much  too  good.  When  I  think  of  her,  I 
feel  sort  of  like  the  dirt  beneath  her  feet,  y'  know. 
A  woman  like  that  —  why,  I'm  not  fit  to  —  to  — " 

"  Tie  her  garter?  " 

"  Don't  talk  like  that,"  Molesworth  had  replied, 
shocked  by  Edward's  ribaldry.  "  She's  above  me,  I 
tell  you,  above  me  !  " 

"  She  would  be,"  said  Edward. 

"  She's  above  the  lot  of  us !  "  Molesworth  took  no 
notice.     Then  they  played  auction  bridge. 

There  was  no  word  from  Norah,  but  Edward 
hardly  expected  that  now.     That  "I  want  you!" 

411 


412  The  Buffoon 

He  remembered.  What  an  ass!  His  self-esteem 
and  self-confidence  kept  low.  Just  then,  he  felt,  it 
was  best  for  him  to  remain  entirely  in  the  back- 
ground. When  luck  was  against  him,  he  always 
staked  little. 

One  morning  a  week  or  so  after  Eunice  had  done 
with  him  he  was  called  on  the  telephone,  and  heard 
a  gentle  voice,  in  a  rather  nervous  pitch,  inquiring  if 
this  were  Mr.  Edward  Raynes.  It  was  Welsh's 
friend  O'Flaherty,  who  told  Edward  that  Welsh 
was  seriously  ill,  that  he  had  suffered  from  frightful 
dyspepsia  for  several  days,  had  eaten  hardly  any- 
thing, and  then  finally  collapsed  on  the  platform  of 
the  station  at  Nottingham,  in  which  town  he  had  been 
giving  a  lecture.  He  had  been  taken  to  a  hospital, 
and  then,  as  he  seemed  a  little  better  under  treat- 
ment, to  London  to  see  a  specialist,  who  had  pro- 
nounced that  he  had  an  abscess  in  his  stomach  and 
must  be  operated  on  at  once.  At  present  he  was  in  a 
Nursing  Home  —  O'Flaherty  gave  the  address  — 
and  he  would  like  to  see  Mr.  Raynes  before  the 
operation.  Yes,  there  was  danger.  Welsh  was 
shockingly  nm  down,  but  they  could  not  wait  to  op- 
erate. Could  Mr.  Raynes  come  at  once?  That 
was  the  best  time. 

Edward  went,  mortality  weighing  upon  him  as  he 
drove  through  the  familiar  streets.  Norah  had 
slipped  away,  he  grew  old,  Welsh  was  perhaps  dying, 
and  with  Welsh  he  could  have  lived.  Yes,  he  smelt 
mould.     Who  was  it  who  had  said :     "  That  was  the 


The  Buffoon  413 

day  when  I  first  realised  that  I  must  die  "  ?  Charles 
Lamb?  or  Fitzgerald?  Either  of  them  might  have 
said  that.  Edward  hadn't  realised  it  himself  before, 
his  thoughts  about  death  had  been  very  academic, 
the  idea  of  death  had  never  touched  him  personally. 
He  remembered  that  when  as  a  boy  he  saw  his  first 
corpse,  the  corpse  of  an  aunt,  he  had  cried  out: 
"  Take  it  away!  I  don't  like  it!  "  He  could  say 
that  then :  now  there  was  no  use  saying  it.  Now 
there  was  a  finger  pointing:  "  At  thee  I  aim  it!  " 
These  people  in  the  street,  did  they  know  they  had 
to  die?  What  had  happened  to  some  few  of  last 
year's  passers-by  in  Regent  Street?  to  some  few  more 
of  the  passers-by  of  five  years  back?  to  more  yet  at 
ten  years'  space?  and  to  more  again  of  the  'nineties, 
the  'eighties,  the  'seventies?  and  so  it  went,  so  it 
would  always  go.  There  was  something  incredibly 
horrible  in  these  recent  deaths.  People  who  had 
slept  in  modern  beds,  trod  modern  carpets,  worn 
modern  clothes,  sat  in  modern  chairs,  used  modern 
water-closets  —  Edward  checked  himself;  these 
thoughts  must  stop.  And  after  all,  time  passed.  It 
was  only  these  newly  dead,  and  these  Victorian  dead, 
that  one  could  not  stand.  There  were  the  great 
men,  too,  even  the  modern  great.  He  could  think 
of  them  without  that  sickly  horror. —  Swinburne 
and  Meredith. —  Meredith  had  been  cremated,  and 
if  you  were  cremated  it  was  not  so  bad,  even  if  you 
weren't  great  at  all.  Edward  resolved  to  direct  cre- 
mation in  his  Will  on  the  earliest  opportunity. 


CHAPTER  XLVl 

THE  Nursing  Home  had  a  cleanliness  that 
suggested  medical  treatment,  a  cheerful  look 
that  spoke  of  spruce  nice  nurses  by  laun- 
dered sickbeds.  Edward  thought  that  if  he  were 
ill  he  would  be  happier  in  less  hygienic  surroundings, 
not  so  much  designed  to  brighten  people  up.  He 
had  to  wait  for  a  little  in  the  kind  of  anteroom  that 
could  not  exist  anywhere  but  in  a  professed  medical 
establishment,  ^  room  in  which  it  seemed  that  no- 
body could  possibly  have  ever  done  anything  but 
wait  and  turn  the  pages  of  magazines,  looking  at  pic- 
tures of  public  men  and  public  occasions,  thinking 
all  the  while  of  something  else,  of  this  or  that,  think- 
ing without  stir  of  the  brain.  Edward  was  begin- 
ning to  regard  with  some  impatience  the  reassuring 
wallpaper  and  the  polite  chairs  when  he  was  sum- 
moned. "  Not  more  than  ten  minutes,"  the  nurse 
told  him.     "  He  is  very  weak." 

Welsh  was  lying  on  his  back,  with  both  his  arms 
stretched,  it  seemed  to  abnormal  length,  outside  the 
counterpane.  The  sleeves  of  his  nightshirt  were 
made  of  a  white  woolly  material,  very  woolly,  heavy 
and  thick.  He  turned  his  head  as  Edward  entered, 
and  his  face  had  an  appearance  startlingly  shrivelled; 
the  skin  was  tightly  drawn  about  his   cheekbones. 

414 


The  Buffoon  415 

He  was  not  pale,  he  was  more  red  than  white,  but 
his  colour  looked  as  though  it  were  made  up  of 
points  densely  grouped,  points  that  had  been  pro- 
duced by  the  pricking  of  the  needles  of  an  electric 
battery.  His  eyes  showed  pain,  they  had  that  pe- 
culiar feminine  look  that  one  is  struck  by  in  the  eyes 
of  hurt  men  and  hurt  animals;  but  sometimes,  when 
he  was  suffering  less,  they  seemed  the  eyes  of  an 
independent  observer  who  had  taken  his  post  for  a 
view,  in  complete  dissociation  from  the  neighbouring 
physiognomy.  His  lips  were  drawn  together,  there 
was  little  blood  in  them,  they  looked  thin  and  hard- 
ened and  blue  as  with  cold. 

"  Ah.  I'm  very  glad."  He  spoke  in  quite  his 
normal  voice.  "  You  are  really  kind  to  me.  They 
should  have  let  you  come  in  before.  I  don't  know 
why—" 

Welsh  stopped  arid  grimaced,  but  did  not  turn  his 
head.  Edward  took  his  hand  for  a  moment,  and 
then  sat  down  by  the  bed-. 

"  Remember,"  he  said,  "  you  mustn't  talk  too 
much." 

"  They  say  so."  Welsh  raised  his  head  a  little 
with  an  awkward  motion  and  a  shuffling  of  his  whole 
body.  "  So  they  say.  But  there's  nothing  in  that. 
They  have  their  little  conventions ;  like  us  all.  Still, 
science  is  kind.  I  wasn't  sure  of  that  before,  but  it  is 
true.  Science  is  kind. —  I  wanted  to  see  you. 
You  asked  me  to  stay  with  you,  and  I  like  being  liked, 
as  you  know.    Oh,  yes,  and  tell  me.    Reggie  —  Reg- 


416  The  Buffoon 

gle's  little  ways.  You  know?  Curse  this  pain. 
My  brother  Lulu  tells  me  I  make  the  most  horrible 
faces.  Do  you  mind?  No,  I  think  it's  Oxford  men 
who"  mind  that  sort  of  thing.  My  cousin  Hugh 
Powys  was  here,  and  I  saw  him  looking  at  the  carpet. 
He's  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman,  and  they  are  very 
embarrassing,  particularly  when  they're  embarrassed. 
Yes,  Cambridge  men  are  different.  But  about  Reg- 
gie.    No  harm  done,  I  hope?  " 

"  None  whatever."  Edward  was  emphatic. 
"  What  Tryers  said  hadn't  the  smallest  effect." 

"  Ah,  that's  good.  That's  very  good.  You  are 
wonderful.  No  one  can  touch  yoii.  Reggie's  gone 
to  Australia,  thank  heaven, —  sailed  this  morning. 
I  didn't  see  him.  I  showed  extraordinary  courage. 
You  must  commend  me  for  that.  I  told  them  not  to 
let  him  come.  I  couldn't  really  have  him  about  my 
deathbed;  that  was  too  much — " 

"  But  this  isn't  your  deathbed.  My  dear  Jack, 
I'm  sure  of  it!  You  mustn't  die.  It's  an  absurd 
thing  to  say,  but  really,  you  know,  I  can't  get  on  with- 
out you.     I  want  you  particularly.     I  — " 

"  You  feel  like  that!  Do  you  really?  I'm  mon- 
strously pleased.  I  am  indeed."  The  sick  man  was 
radiant. 

*'  It  will  be  all  right,"  Edward  went  on.  "  You'll 
see." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  Welsh  said: 
"  Whatever  happens,  it  will  be  all  right." 

"  Of  course." 


The  Buffoon  417 

"  There  is  only  one  philosophy,  you  know,  the 
philosophy  of  resignation. —  I  should  like,  though, 
to  have  seen  this  great  war.  I  should  like  to  have 
lived  through  that.  However,  there  are  many 
enough  who  won't.  I  shall  die  with  the  dead  of  the 
first  battlefields.  You  know  that  we  shall  be  in  it  at 
midnight?  At  midnight!  The  ultimatum  to  Ger- 
many. And  my  operation  is  for  ten  o'clock  to-mor- 
row morning.  How  exciting!  How  tantalising! 
You  see  how  Fate  plays  with  me.  There  is  some 
nonsense  about  my  not  seeing  to-morrow's  paper. 
But  my  little  brother  Lulu  will  knock  that  on  the 
head.  He  will  tell  me  the  news;  he  understands. 
Imagine  it, —  cheating  me  of  my  last  thrill !  The 
cruelty  of  that!  "     His  eyes  gleamed. 

"How  public-spirited  you  are!"  Edward  was 
rather  surprised.  It  struck  him  that  Welsh  was  so 
arbitrary  about  his  sensations  that  perhaps  he  had 
really  ceased  to  feel  anything.  "  I've  hardly 
thought  of  the  war,"  Edward  went  on.  "  I  confess 
that  all  that  business  seems  irrelevant.  Of  course 
the  Chancelleries  of  Europe  ought  to  be  extermi- 
nated.    But  — " 

"  Ah,  that's  like  you,  that's  like  you !  You  in- 
dividualists—  your  serene  detachments,  your  unin- 
vaded  preoccupations!  Curse  this  pain.  I'm  of 
another  mould :  I'm  swept  with  the  tides  —  off  my 
feet.  I  want  to  be  in  the  surge  and  swell  of  any 
large  general  movement.  Yes,  I  should  like  to  go 
to  Paris  and  join  some  Foreign  Legion  of  extraor- 


418  The  Buffoon 


dlnary  adventurers, —  Spaniards,  Italians,  Ameri- 
cans,—  a  Foreign  Legion  that  would  accept  any  one, 
without  question,  without  form. —  I  don't  think  I 
could  stand  our  English  officers,  but  the  war  may 
civilise  even  them.  I  tell  you,  it  is  exciting!  A 
war  of  ideas!  The  old  great  Latin  ideals  and  this 
new  Teutonic  notion  of  an  efficient  World-State- 
Machine.  Which  is  to  fall?  And  then  of  course, 
there's  the  movement  of  the  Slavs  westward — " 

Edward  rose  and  touched  his  friend's  hand.  He 
wanted  to  say:  "Ah,  but  surely  you  don't  think 
that  ideas  can  fight  like  duellists,  to  kill  or  die  ?  " 
But  he  said  instead:  "  I  must  go.  I'm  not  allowed 
to  stay  longer."  He  was  indeed  blaming  himself  al- 
ready; he  should  have  stopped  Jack  before,  he  should 
not  have  let  him  waste  his  strength.  "  And,"  he 
added,  "  you  will  live.  You  will  live  when  the  war 
is  dead." 

Welsh  surveyed  him  searchlngly.  "  Good-bye," 
he  said,  and  took  his  hand.  "  Oh,  and  don't  forget, 
Reggie's  boat  may  be  intercepted  by  a  German  armed 
cruiser.  Think  of  that!  I  expect  he's  a  bit  nervous. 
Would  they  make  him  a  prisoner  of  war  ?  Dear  me ! 
If  I  could  hear  of  that,  I  should  die  laughing, —  al- 
though I  never  laugh.  Isn't  that  extraordinary?  I 
can  never  laugh,  I  can  never  cry." 

He  sank  back,  exhausted;  his  features  relaxed. 
To  Edward  he  had  a  look  of  nobility  then,  a  look 
that  was  grave  and  fine.  He  should  have  been  a 
genius,  was  a  genius,  perhaps.     What  was  it,  though. 


rhe  Buffoon  419 

that  had  failed  him?  Something  —  some  Interfu- 
sion of  substance  that  he  had  just  missed  —  another 
of  Nature's  tricks?  If  Edward  told  him  now  that 
he  was  a  genius,  he  would  be  flattered,  he  would  be 
pleased  at  once  and  spoilt  at  once;  yes,  Edward 
would  see  him  losing  the  soul  he  ought  to  have. 
What  a  pity!  Edward  figured  Welsh  kicking  out 
absurdly,  like  an  undisciplined  colt.  But  for  all  that 
Welsh  was  not  a  buffoon,  except  to  the  outer  view. 
Edward  was  more  sure  of  that  than  ever.  Well,  he 
must  go.  He  wanted  to  remember  Jack  Welsh  as 
he  was  then;  he  looked  at  him  once  more,  and  then 
left  without  further  word.     He  felt  very  small. 


CHAPTER  XLVII 

A  LETTER  from  George  arrived  the  next 
morning,  written  from  somewhere  on  the 
Suffolk  coast.  Edward's  eye  fell  first  on 
the  last  page :  "  Norah  wishes  to  be  very  kindly  re- 
membered to  you,  and  I  am,  yours  as  always,  George 
Forrest."  So  she  was  still  with  him,  and  they  had 
left  London.  Those  grave,  tender,  savage  embraces 
of  hers  that  Edward  had  dreamed  of,  embraces  so 
profoundly  charged,  they  would  never  come, — 
neither  from  her  nor  from  any  one  else.  He  de- 
spaired of  them :  he  had  known  them  once, —  but  had 
he?  had  he  had  them  as  he  thought  of  them  now? 
In  any  case,  it  was  sure  that  he  would  not  have  them 
again.  And  Jack  Welsh,  whose  friendship  might 
have  reconciled  him  to  middle  age,  might  —  would 
—  have  coloured  fresh  vistas  for  him  and  kept  him 
going, —  Jack  Welsh  was  dying,  would  be  dead  in 
an  hour  perhaps,  or  in  half  an  hour. 

Edward  read  the  letter.  George  was  much  occu- 
pied with  the  war,  spoke  of  the  British  ultimatum 
to  Germany:  "  our  only  possible  course  in  honour." 
George  rose  sometimes  almost  to  the  level  of  a  lead- 
ing article  or  a  speech  in  the  House  of  Commons. 
He  said  all  the  usual  things  applicable  to  that  par- 
ticular national  crisis,  and  finally  revived  Edward's 

420 


The  Buffoon  421 

listless  attention  by  announcing  that  he  was  to  be 
married  to  Norah  as  soon  as  possible.  Edward  was 
convinced  that  this  decision  was  closely  connected 
with  the  war.  In  some  undefined  way  George  felt 
that  because  England  was  going  to  war  he  must  no 
longer  lead  an  immoral  life.  That  was  like  George. 
A  little  later  on  he  would  volunteer,  join  the  Officers' 
Training  Corps  or  something  of  that  sort.  There 
would  be  great  clamour  for  men.  Molesworth 
would  certainly  volunteer,  by  way  of  "  atonement." 
"  I  thought,  and  think,  their  sins  atoned."  Many 
would  enlist  for  Molesworth's  reason.  Others 
would  join  the  forces  to  escape  the  horrors  of  do- 
mestic life,  others  would  join  from  love  of  adven- 
ture and  the  gambling  spirit,  others  from  emulation, 
others  from  cowardice,  very  few  primarily  from 
patriotism. 

Edward  felt  a  certain  disposition  to  enlist  himself. 
Would  that  be  for  him  the  final  buffoonery?  He 
had  always  been  drawn  to  the  French  and  the  Rus- 
sians :  for  the  Germans  he  had  always  had  a  marked 
distaste.  This  was  to  him  the  only  possible  reason 
for  fighting  them.  Public  reasons  did  not  touch  Ed- 
ward at  all;  he  could  not  see  that  they  mattered  either 
to  him  or  to  most,  that  they  were  of  moment  to  any 
but  a  handful  of  political  and  diplomatic  specialists. 
If  the  Germans  were  pleasant  people,  let  them  win; 
but  they  were  not  pleasant  people.  On  the  whole 
there  seemed  a  great  deal  to  be  said  for  joining  the 
Army  with  George;  Edward  was  diverted  by  the 


422  T^he  Buffoon 


idea  of  George  and  himself  as  brothers-in-arms. 
And  death  on  the  field  was  less  repugnant  to  him  than 
death  in  a  bedroom.  He  would  escape  burial  in  a 
prepared  graveground  disgustingly  thumbed  and 
fingered  by  parsons  and  craped  relatives.  He  would 
escape  his  separate  mound,  his  especial  funeral. 
There  would  be  no  undertaker,  no  tombstone,  no 
coffin,  no  ceremony,  no  funereal  fuss.  He  would 
probably  be  just  thrown  with  others  into  a  generous 
common  ditch,  and  there  he  and  they  would  lie  un- 
straitened,  in  French  earth.  It  would  be  almost 
like  giving  him  his  place  at  once  among  the  dead 
of  long  past  centuries,  to  fall  so  and  so  to  be 
buried. 

He  took  up  his  paper  and  saw  that  England  had 
indeed  been  at  war  with  Germany  since  eleven 
o'clock  of  the  night  before.  .  .  .  Edward  recalled 
those  fine  Watteaus  in  Paris,  in  London  and  in  Ber- 
lin. He  hoped  that  nothing  would  happen  to  them. 
.  .  .  He  thought  of  Welsh  hearing  the  news  from 
his  brother  Lulu,  perhaps  reading  the  same  paper, 
the  last  paper  he  would  ever  read.  How  much 
Welsh  would  make  of  that:  "  The  last,  my  friend, 
the  last!  I  shall  never  read  another!  "  He  would 
say  that  eagerly,  greedily,  in  gross  lust  for  the  sensa- 
tion of  it.  The  date  of  the  paper,  he  would  look  at 
that,  he  would  make  much  of  that  too.  How  much 
he  always  made  of  everything!  And  he  would  say: 
"  I  die  as  England  declares  war!  I  fall  as  England 
rises!  "     None  the  less  —  all  the  more  for  all  this, 


The  Buffoon  423 

perhaps, —  Edward  needed  him;  yes,  all  the  more 
for  his  foibles  and  follies. 

Edward  looked  at  George's  letter  again.  Did 
George  realise  Norah  at  all?  he  wondered:  could 
George  understand  at  all  what  it  was  that  she  held, 
held  always,  so  potently,  in  reserve  ?  Could  he  read 
her  looks,  did  he  know  why  she  was  lazy  and  shy  in 
just  that  way?  If  George  even  had  some  hint  of 
it  all,  Edward  felt  he  could  forgive  him  for  his  for- 
tune, could  even  get  some  satisfaction  from  the  situa- 
tion. .  .  .  George  was  twenty-six.  Edward  could 
not  get  any  satisfaction  from  that.  Twenty-six  I 
That  accounted  for  a  great  deal. 

Other  quite  different  and  quite  unlooked-for  reflec- 
tions came  to  Edward  at  this  point  with  startling 
rapidit}^  This  immortality  that  he  had  believed  he 
could  snatch  at  and  seize  from  Norah?  Wasn't  that 
idea  sheer  sophistry  rooted  in  cowardice,  after  all? 
What  Norah  stood  for,  with  singular  completeness, 
was  the  trapping  of  human  beings  for  one  end,  apart 
from  their  individual  desires  or  intents.  Why 
should  Edward  accept  that  trapping  as  inevitable,  for 
him?  He  had  thought  that  if  he  were  to  sacrifice  to 
this  precious  "  Whole,"  as  they  called  it,  he  would  in 
a  way  go  free,  be  free  to  return  to  himself.  Now  he 
suspected  that  this  idea  was  the  merest  illusion,  an 
illusion  pressed  with  archaic  craft  into  the  service  of 
the  treachery  of  the  Universe.  "  Here  is  the  only 
immortality  you  can  have !  "  was  an  allure  to  seduce 
him   from  himself,   and  the  bravest   answer  was: 


424  The  Buffoon 


"  Well,  then,  I  reject  it !  I  reject  an  immortality 
shared  with  every  beast  of  the  field."  Really,  a 
sticky  adhesion  could  not  be  always  expected  of  all 
creation.  Edward  vowed  himself  to  perpetual  mis- 
trust of  the  delusive  peace  to  be  won  from  a  woman 
who  was  an  instrument  of  the  Universe  and  absorbed 
by  being  an  instrument.  No,  peace  was  elsewhere, 
the  escape  from  the  discomforts  and  indignities  of  a 
buffoonery  worn  and  faded  was  elsewhere :  he  would 
see  that.  There  came  suddenly  and  surprisingly 
back  to  him  a  memory  of  a  dawn  he  had  once  seen 
after  a  night  journey  in  France;  a  dawn  misty-blue 
and  occult,  a  dawn  that  did  not  creep,  but  came  up 
out  of  the  east  on  slow  wings.  He  saw  again  those 
flat  French  pastures,  their  straight  trees.   .   .   . 

Ten  o'clock  struck.  Edward  looked  at  his  clock; 
it  was  slow,  he  knew.  They  must  have  begun  the 
operation.     Perhaps  even  now.  .  .  . 

He  found  his  hat,  lit  a  cigarette  carefully,  and 
started  out  for  the  Nursing  Home. 


CHAPTER  XLFIII 

AS  the  front  door  opened  to  him,  Edward  no- 
ticed that  at  the  end  of  the  hall  the  door  of 
the  waiting-room  was  open,  and  that  a 
youngish  man  with  light  hair  was  standing  stooped 
over  the  table,  writing.  At  that  moment  a  nurse 
came  briskly  down  the  stairs,  with  a  look  of  pro- 
fessional preoccupation.  Edward  stepped  forward 
and  made  his  inquiry  of  her.  She  stopped,  looked 
sharply  at  him,  seemed  put  out,  and  then  glanced 
over  her  shoulder.  "  Doctor  Marsh!  "  she  called, 
in  a  tentative  moderated  tone.  The  blond  man 
turned.  Edward  went  to  him,  and  the  nurse  fol- 
lowed. "  This  gentleman  wants  to  know  about  Mr. 
Welsh,"  she  said  hurriedly,  and  went  off. 

The  doctor  surveyed  Edward  remotely  for  a  mo- 
ment; he  cleared  his  throat.  Edward  noticed  how 
well-groomed  he  was,  how  non-committal,  how  self- 
contained,  how  immune  from  lapses  or  breaches  or 
breaks.  His  eyes  seemed  guarded,  now  and  for- 
ever, and  when  he  spoke  Edward  felt  that  his  re- 
served, balanced,  considerate  voice  might  have  been 
made  up  to  prescription  by  a  practised  hand. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  have  to  tell  you  that  Mr. 
Welsh  died  under  the  operation."  Edward  bowed. 
He  had  been  entirely  convinced  that  it  was  so,  from 

425 


426  The  Buffoon 

the  time  he  reached  that  front  door.  "  Sir  Wilfrid 
had  very  little  hope  from  the  first.  You  may  be 
assured  that  the  end  was  quite  inevitable.  He  could 
not  possibly  have  been  in  better  hands.  You  know 
Sir  Wilfrid  Horsbrough's  reputation  for  the  very 
highest  surgical  skill.  You  may  feel  that  no  one 
could  have  saved  him  when  Sir  Wilfrid  failed.  The 
abscess  was  particularly  dangerously  placed." 

"  Yes,-'  said  Edward.  "  Thank  you.  Thank  you 
very  much." 

He  left,  and  walked  towards  his  rooms,  through 
the  stirred  London  streets,  past  shouting  newsboys 
and  preoccupied  men  and  women  not  quite  at  ease 
under  the  new  imposition  upon  their  London  calm. 
So  England  was  at  war,  and  the  war  was  to  be  the 
greatest  in  history.  George's  words,  and  probably 
true  enough.  Russia,  Germany,  Austria,  France, — 
and  now  England.  .  .  . 

"  Hulloa,  dear  fellow!  "  the  voice  of  Foxy  Fen- 
ton  swished  Edward  with  neat  aim.  "  Where  are 
you  off  to?  What  d' you  think  of  the  war?  Won't 
last  long,  though.  Two  or  three  months  perhaps. 
Not  beyond  Christmas.  Had  a  long  talk  with  old 
Slaughden  —  military  specialist  and  all  that  —  in 
with  all  the  big  people  at  the  War  Office  —  he  told 
me  it  couldn't  possibly  last.  Oh,  no,  the  Germans 
are  done  in,  simply  done  in.  Of  course  they  know 
it  now. —  But  I'm  hit, —  devil  of  a  nuisance. 
Rogers  has  backed  out,  won't  publish  my  '  Little 
Fishes,' —  because  of  the  war,  he  says.     What  non- 


rhe  Buffoo?i  427 

sense!  No  use  my  telling  him;  that  wouldn't  make 
any  difference.  Obstinate  old  elephant.  Agree- 
ment practically  fixed  up,  but  I  can't  get  at  him  le- 
gally; he  knows  that.  Deuce  of  a  mess  for  me! 
Lose  a  cool  hundred,  at  least." 

Edward  saved  time  by  handing  hirn  a  sovereign. 

"Hello!  what?  Oh,  very  nice  of  you,  Raynes, 
very  nice.  I'll  send  you  a  cheque.  Unconscionable 
ass,  that  fellow  Rogers.  Never  mind.  What  a 
circus,  that  show  the  other  night!  What  a  circus! 
Distinguished  looking  man,  though,  that  friend  of 
yours.     You  must  introduce  me  some  time." 

"  H'm  —  yes  —  he's  dead."  Edward's  accuracy 
and  buffoonery  worked  mechanically  together  for 
this  half-audible  response. 

"  Well,  so  long,  old  chap.  I'm  off  to  meet  a  man 
at  Madame  Tussaud's!  Madame  Tussaud's!" 
Fenton  gave  his  usual  chuckle,  waved  gaily,  and 
went,  looking  extremely  prosperous. 

"The  other  night!  "  Edward  tried  to  believe  it. 
.  .  .  Fenton's  existence  was  inexplicable  to  him. 
.  .  .  Still  the  newsboys  shouted,  men  and  women 
went  talking  gravely,  they  hurried,  they  strode  by, 
looking  responsible  and  important,  conscious  of  their 
added  dignity  through  the  event.  But  across  Ed- 
ward's brain  certain  images  quite  unconnected  with 
that  new  tremendous  clash  passed  and  repassed: 
while  the  same  words,  in  the  dead  man's  voice, 
sounded  with  beating  repetition  in  his  ears: 
"  Whatever  happens,  it  will  be  all  right."     "  There 


428  The  Buffoon 

is  only  one  philosophy,  the  philosophy  of  resigna- 
tion." 

Edward,  as  he  stepped  on,  looking  through  and 
beyond  all  that  present  whirl  and  stir,  was  at  this 
especial  moment  not  striving  to  pierce  nor  curious  to 
guess  what  lay  before  him.  Birth  does  not  give 
clear  sight.  He  saw  nothing,  not  even  the  poplars 
of  France  under  a  misty  dawn. 


The  End 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


JUL  1 S 1988 
JUL  18 1988 


Form  L9-25TO-8, '46 (9852)444 


THE  LIBRARY 

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